u 


3) 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


Other  fForkt  by 
THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  LONELINESS  OF  CHRIST 

A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 

{IllujtrateJ) 

STANDING  BY 

THE  DRIFT  OF  PINIONS 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


SIMON   CALLED 
PETER 


BY 

ROBERT  KEABLE 

AUTHOR  nr  "rriF  drift  op  piviows," 

"STANDTSG  BT,"  ETC. 


/ 


NEW  YORK 

E.  p.  DUTl  ON  ^  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  A\TENUE 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 

BY  E.   P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


AU  Rights  Reserved 


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Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


THIS    BOOK   IS   DEDICATED  TO 

JULIE 

She  never  lived,  maybe,  but  it  is  truer  to  say 
that  she  never  dies.  Nor  shall  she  ever  die. 
One  may  believe  in  God,  thouph  He  is  hard 
to  Had,  and  in  Women,  though  such  as 
/  Julie  arc  far  to  secL 


u 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER 

The  glamour  of  no  other  evil  thing  is  stronger  than  the 
glamour  of  war.  It  would  seem  as  if  the  cup  of  the  world's 
sorrow  as  a  result  of  war  had  been  filled  to  the  brim  again 
and  again,  but  still  a  new  generation  has  always  been  found 
to  forget.  A  new  generation  has  always  been  found  to 
talk  of  the  heroisms  that  the  divine  in  us  can  manifest  in 
the  mouth  of  hell  and  to  forget  that  so  great  a  miracle  docs 
not  justify  our  creation  of  the  circumstance. 

Yet  if  ever  war  came  near  to  its  final  condemnation  it 
was  in  1914-191S.  Our  comrades  died  bravely,  and  we  had 
been  willing  to  die,  to  put  an  end  to  it  once  and  for  all. 
Indeed  war-weary  men  heart!  the  noise  of  conflict  die  away 
)  on  November  11,  1918,  thinking  that  that  end  had  been 
attained.  It  is  not  yet  three  years  ago;  a  little  time,  but 
long  enough  for  betrayal. 

Long  enough,  too,  for  the  making  of  many  books  about 
it  all,  wherein  has  been  recorded  such  heroisms  as  might 
make  God  proud  and  such  horror  as  might  make  the  Devil 
weep.  Yet  has  the  truth  been  told,  after  all?  Has  the 
world  realized  that  in  a  modem  war  a  nation  but  moves 
in  uniform  to  perform  its  ordinary  tasks  in  a  new  intoxicat- 
ing atmosphere  ?  Now  and  again  a  small  percentage  of  the 
whole  is  flung  into  the  pit,  and,  for  them,  where  one  in  ten 
was  heavy  slaughter,  now  one  in  ten  is  reasonable  escape. 
The  rest,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time,  live  an  unnatural 
life,  death  near  enough  to  make  them  reckless  and  far 
enough  to  make  them  gay.  Commonly  men  and  w-omen 
more  or  less  restrain  themselves  because  of  tomorrow;  but 
what   if  there  be  no   tomorrow?     What  if  the  dice  are 

rii 


nil 


THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER 


heavily  weighted  against  it?  And  what  of  their  already 
jeoparded  restraint  when  the  crisis  has  thrown  the  conven- 
tions to  the  winds  and  there  is  little  to  lighten  the  end  of 
the  day? 

Thus  to  lift  the  veil  on  life  behind  the  lines  in  time  ol 
war  is  a  thankless  task.  The  stay-at-homes  will  not  bclicve» 
and  particularly  they  whose  smug  respectability  and  con- 
ventional religion  has  been  put  to  no  such  fiery  trial.  More- 
over they  will  do  more  than  disbelieve ;  they  will  say  that 
the  story  is  not  fit  to  be  told.  Nor  is  it.  But  then  it  should 
never  liave  been  lived.  That  very  respectability,  that  very 
conventionality,  that  very  contented  backboneless  religion 
made  it  possible — all  but  made  it  necessary.  For  it  was 
those  things  which  allowed  the  world  to  drift  into  the  war, 
and  what  the  war  was  nine  days  out  of  ten  ought  to  be 
thrust  under  the  eyes  of  those  who  will  not  believe.  It  is 
a  small  thing  that  men  die  in  battle,  for  a  man  has  but 
one  life  to  live  and  it  is  good  to  give  it  for  one's  friends; 
but  it  is  such  an  evil  that  it  has  no  like,  this  drifting  of  a 
world  into  a  hell  to  which  men's  souls  are  driven  like  red 
maple  leaves  before  the  autumn  wind. 

The  oUl-fashioncd  pious  books  made  hell  stink  of  brim- 
stone and  painted  the  Devil  hideous.  But  Satan  is  not  such 
a  fool.  Champagne  and  Martinis  do  not  taste  like  Gregory 
powder,  nor  was  St.  Anthony  tempted  by  shrivelled  hags. 
Paganism  can  be  gay,  and  passion  look  like  love.  More- 
over, still  more  truly,  Christ  could  see  the  potentiality  of 
virtue  in  Mary  Magdalene  and  of  strength  in  Simon  called 
Peter.    The  conventional  religious  world  does  not. 

A  curious  feature,  too,  of  that  strange  life  was  its  lack 
of  consecutiveness.  It  was  like  the  pages  of  La  Vie 
Parisienne.  The  friend  of  today  was  gone  for  ever  to- 
morrow. A  man  arrived,  weary  and  dirty  and  craving  for 
excitement,  in  some  unknown  town;  in  half  an  hour  he  had 
stepped  into  the  gay  glitter  of  wine  and  women's  smiles;  in 
half  a  dozen  he  had  been  whirled  away.    The  days  lingered 


TllE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  READER  ix 

and  yet  flew;  the  pages  were  twirled  ever  more  dazzlingly; 
only  at  the  end  men  saw  in  a  blinding  flash  whither  they 
had  been  led. 

These  things,  then,  are  set  out  in  this  book.  This  is  its 
atmosphere.  They  are  truly  set  out.  They  are  not  white- 
washed ;  still  less  are  they  pictured  as  men  might  have  seen 
them  in  ifiore  sober  moments,  as  the  Puritan  world  would 
see  them  now.  Nor  docs  the  book  set  forth  the  author's 
judgment,  for  that  is  not  his  idea  of  a  novel.  It  sets  out 
what  Peter  and  Julie  saw  and  did,  and  what  it  appeared  to 
them  to  be  while  they  did  it.  Very  probably,  then,  the 
average  reader  had  better  read  no  further  than  this.  .  .  . 

But  at  any  rate  let  him  not  read  further  than  is  written. 
The  last  page  has  been  left  blank.  It  has  been  left  blank 
for  a  reason,  because  the  curtain  falls  not  on  the  conclusion 
of  tile  lives  of  those  who  have  stepped  upon  the  boards,  but 
at  a  psychological  moment  in  their  story.  The  Lord  has 
turned  to  look  upon  Peter,  and  Julie  has  seen  that  He  has 
looked.  It  is  enough ;  they  were  hapj)y  who,  going  down 
f  t  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  saw  a  vision  of 
God's  love  even  there.  For  the  Oirist  of  Calvary  moved 
to  His  Cross  again  but  a  few  short  years  ago;  and  it  is 
enough  in  one  book  to  tell  how  Simon  failed  to  follow,  hut 
how  Jesus  turned  to  look  on  Peter.  _    ^ 


PART  I 

Ah!  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 

Ah!    must — 

Designer  infinite! — 
Ah!  must  Thou  char  the  wood  cxe  Thou  canst  limn  with  it? 

Fkawcis  Tuompson. 


SIMON  CALLED   PETER 


CHAPTER  I 

LONDON  lay  as  if  washed  with  water-colour  that  Sunday 
morning,  light  blue  sky  and  pale  dancing  sunlight 
wooing  the  begrimed  stones  of  Westminster  like  a  young 
girl  with  an  old  lover.  The  cmjity  streets,  clean-swept,  were 
bathed  in  the  light,  and  appeared  to  be  transformed  from  the 
streets  of  week-day  life.  Yet  the  half  of  Londoners  lay 
late  abed,  perhaps  because  six  mornings  a  week  of  reality 
made  them  care  little  for  one  of  magic. 

Peter,  nevertheless,  saw  little  of  this  beauty.  He  walked 
swiftly  as  always,  and  he  looked  about  him,  but  he  noticed 
none  of  these  things.  True,  a  fluttering  sheet  of  newspaper 
headlines  impaled  on  the  railings  of  St.  Margaret's  held  him 
for  a  second,  but  that  was  because  its  message  was  the  one 
that  rang  continually  in  his  head,  and  had  nothing  r»t  all  to 
do  with  the  beauty  of  things  that  he  passed  by. 

He  was  a  perfectly  dressed  young  man,  in  a  frock  coat 
and  silk  hat  of  the  London  clepg^yman,  and  he  was  on  his 
way  to  preach  at  St.  John's  at  the  morning  service.  Walking 
always  helped  him  to  prepare  his  sermons,  and  this  sermon 
would  ordinarily  have  struck  him  as  one  well  worth  prepar- 
ing. The  pulpit  of  St.  John's  marked  a  rung  up  in  the  ladder 
for  him.  That  great  fashionable  church  of  mid-Victorian 
faith  and  manners  held  a  congregation  on  Sunday  mornings 
for  which  the  Rector  catered  with  care.  It  said  a  good  deal 
for  Peter  that  he  had  been  invited  to  preach.     He  ought 


4  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

to  have  had  his  determined  scheme  plain  hefore  him,  and 
a  few  sentences,  carefully  polished,  at  hand  for  the  beginning 
and  the  end.  He  could  trust  himself  in  the  middle,  and 
was  perfectly  conscious  of  that.  He  frankly  liked  preaching, 
liked  it  not  merely  as  an  actor  loves  to  sway  his  audience, 
but  liked  it  because  he  always  knew  what  to  say,  and  was 
really  keen  that  people  should  see  his  argument.  And  yet 
this  morning,  when  he  should  have  been  prepared  for  the 
best  he  could  do,  he  was  not  prepared  at  all. 

Strictly,  that  is  not  quite  true,  for  he  had  a  text,  and  the 
te.xt  absolutely  focused  his  thought.  But  it  was  too  big  for 
him.  Like  some  at  least  in  England  that  day,  he  was  con- 
scious of  staring  down  a  lane  of  tragedy  that  appalled  him. 
Fragments  of  sentences  came  and  went  in  his  head.  He 
groped  for  words,  mentally,  as  he  walked.  Over  and  over 
again  he  repeated  his  text.  It  amazed  him  by  its  simplicity ; 
it  horrified  him  by  its  depth. 

Hilda  was  waiting  at  the  pillar-box  as  she  had  said  she 
would  be,  and,  little  as  she  could  guess  it,  she  irritated  him. 
He  did  not  want  her  just  then.  He  could  hardly  tell  why, 
except  that,  somehow,  she  ran  counter  to  his  thoughts 
altogether  that  morning.  She  seemed,  even  in  her  excellent 
brown  costume  that  fitted  her  fine  figure  so  well,  out  of 
place,  and  out  of  place  for  the  first  time. 

They  were  not  openly  engaged,  these  two,  but  there  was 
an  understanding  between  them,  and  an  understanding  that 
her  family  was  slowly  recognising.  Mr.  Lessing,  at  first, 
would  never  have  accepted  an  engagement,  for  he  had  other 
ideas  for  his  daughter  of  the  big  house  in  Park  Lane.  The 
rich  city  merchant,  church-warden  at  St.  John's,  important 
in  his  party,  and  a  person  of  distinction  when  at  his  club, 
would  have  been  seriously  annoyed  that  his  daughter  should 
consider  a  marriage  with  a  curate  whose  gifts  had  not  yet 
made  him  an  income.  But  he  recognised  that  the  young  man 
might  go  far.  "Young  Graham?"  he  would  say.  "Yes,  a 
clever  young  fellow,  with  quite  remarkable  gifts,  sir.  Bishop 
thinks  a  lot  of  him,   I  believe.     Preaches  extraordinarily 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  5 

•well.  The  Rector  said  he  would  ask  him  to  St.  John's  one 
morning.  .  .  ." 

Peter  Graham's  parish  ran  down  to  the  river,  and  included 
slums  in  which  some  of  the  ladies  of  St.  John's  (whost 
congregation  had  seen  to  it  that  in  their  immediate  neigh- 
bourhood there  were  no  such  things)  were  interested.  So 
the  two  had  met.  She  had  found  him  admirable  and  likeable  ; 
he  found  her  highly  respectable  and  seemingly  unapproach- 
able. From  which  cold  elements  much  more  may  come  than 
one  might  suppose. 

At  any  rate,  now,  Mrs.  Lessing  said  nothing  when  Hilda 
went  to  post  a  letter  in  London  on  Sunday  morning  before 
breakfast.  She  would  have  mildly  remonstrated  if  the  girl 
had  gone  to  meet  the  young  man.  The  which  was  England 
once,  and  may,  despite  the  Kaiser,  be  England  yet  once  more. 

"I  was  nearly  going,"  she  declared.    "You're  a  bit  late." 

"I  know,"  he  replied  ;  "I  couldn't  help  it.  The  early  service 
took  longer  than  usual.  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you  before 
breakfast.    Tell  me,  what  does  your  father  think  of  it  all?" 

The  girl  gave  a  little  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "Oh,  he  says 
war  is  impossible.  The  credit  system  makes  it  impossible. 
But  if  he  really  thinks  so,  I  don't  see  why  he  should  say  it  so 
often  and  so  violently.    Oh,  Peter,  what  do  you  think?" 

The  young  man  unconsciously  quickened  his  pace.  "I 
think  it  is  certain,"  he  said.  "We  must  come  in.  I  should 
say,  more  likely,  the  credit  system  makes  it  impossible  for 
us  to  keep  out.  I  mean,  half  Europe  can't  go  to  war  and 
we  sit  still.  Not  in  tliese  days.  And  if  it  comes — Good 
Lord,  Hilda,  do  you  know  what  it  means?  I  can't  see  the 
end,  only  it  looks  to  me  like  being  a  fearful  smash.  .  .  .  Oh, 
we  shall  pull  through,  but  nobody  seems  to  see  that  our 
ordinary  life  will  come  down  like  a  pack  of  cards.  And  what 
will  the  poor  do  ?  And  can't  you  see  the  masses  of  poor  souls 
that  will  be  thrown  into  the  vortex  like,  like  .  .  ."  He 
broke  off.  "I  can't  find  words,"  he  said,  gesticulating  ner- 
vously.   "It's  colossal." 

"Peter,  you're  going  to  preach  about  it :  I  can  see  you 


6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

are.  But  do  take  care  what  you  say.  I  should  hate  father 
to  be  upset.  He's  so — oh,  I  don't  know  ! — British,  I  tliink. 
He  hates  to  be  thrown  out,  you  know,  and  he  won't  think 
all  that  possible." 

She  glanced  up  (the  least  little  bit  that  she  had  to)  anx- 
iously. Graham  smiled.  "I  know  Mr.  Lessing,"  he  said. 
"But,  Hilda,  he's  got  to  be  moved.  Why,  he  may  be  in 
khaki  yet !" 

"Oh,  Peter,  don't  be  silly.  Why,  father's  fifty,  and  not 
exactly  in  training,"  she  laughed.  Then,  seriously :  "But  for 
goodness'  sake  don't  say  such  things — for  my  sake,  anyway." 

Peter  regarded  her  gravely,  and  held  open  the  gate.  "Ill 
remember,"  he  said,  "but  more  unlikely  things  may  happen 
than  that." 

They  went  up  the  path  together,  and  Hilda  slipped  a  key 
into  the  door.  As  it  opened,  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  her 
for  the  first  time.  "What  will  you  do?"  she  demanded 
suddenly. 

Mrs.  Lessing  was  just  going  into  the  dining-room,  and 
Peter  had  no  need  to  reply.  "Good-morning,  Mr.  Graham," 
she  said,  coming  forward  graciously.  "I  wondered  if  Hilda 
would  meet  you :  she  wanted  to  post  a  letter.  Come  in.  You 
must  be  hungry  after  your  walk." 

A  manservant  held  the  door  open,  and  they  all  went  in. 
That  magic  sun  shone  on  the  silver  of  the  breakfast-table, 
and  lit  up  the  otherwise  heavy  room.  Mrs.  Lessing  swung 
the  cover  of  a  silver  dish  and  the  eggs  slipped  in  to  boil.  She 
touched  a  button  on  the  table  and  sat  down,  just  as  Mr. 
Lessing  came  rather  ponderously  forward  with  a  folded 
newspaper  in  his  hand. 

"Morning,  Graham,"  he  said.  "Morning,  Hilda.  Been 
out,  eh?  Well,  well,  lovely  morning  out;  makes  one  feel 
ten  years  younger.  But  what  do  you  think  of  all  this, 
Graham?"  waving  the  paper  as  he  spoke. 

Peter  just  caught  the  portentous  headline — 

"GERMANY  DECLARES  WAR  ON  RUSSIA." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  7 

as  he  pulled  up  to  the  table,  but  he  did  not  need  to  see  it. 
There  was  really  no  news:  only  that.  "It  is  certain,  I  think, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  certain,  certain,"  said  Lessing,  seating  himself.  "The 
telegrams  say  they  are  over  the  frontier  of  Luxembourg 
and  massing  against  France.  Grey  can't  stop  'em  now,  but 
the  world  won't  stand  it — can't  stand  it.  There  can't  be  a 
long  war.  Probably  it's  all  a  big  bluff  again ;  they  know  in 
Berlin  that  business  can't  stand  a  war,  or  at  any  rate  a  long 
war.  And  we  needn't  come  in.  In  the  City,  yesterday,  they 
said  the  Government  could  do  more  by  standing  out.  We're 
not  pledged.  Anderson  told  me  Asquith  said  so  distinctly. 
And,  thank  God,  the  Fleet's  ready!  It's  madness,  madness, 
and  we  must  keep  our  heads.    That's  what  I  say,  anyway." 

Graham  cracked  an  egg  mechanically.  His  sermon  was 
coming  back  to  him.  He  saw  a  congregation  of  Lessings, 
and  more  clearly  than  ever  the  other  things.  "What  about 
Belgium?"  he  queried.  "Surely  our  honour  is  engaged 
there?" 

Mr.  Lessing  pulled  up  his  napkin,  visibly  perturbed. 
"Yes,  but  what  can  we  do?"  he  demanded.  "What  is  the 
good  of  flinging  a  handful  of  troops  overseas,  even  if  we 
can?  It's  incredible — English  troops  in  Flanders  in  this 
century.  In  my  opinion — in  my  opinion,  I  say — we  should 
do  better  to  hold  ourselves  in  readiness.  Germany  would 
never  really  dare  antagonise  us.  They  know  what  it  involves. 
Why,  there's  hundreds  of  millions  of  pounds  at  stake.  Grey 
has  only  to  be  firm,  and  things  must  come  right.  Must — 
absolutely  must." 

"Annie  said,  this  morning,  that  she  heard  everyone  in  the 
streets  last  night  say  we  must  fight,  father,"  put  in  Hilda. 

"Pooh !"  exclaimed  the  city  personage,  touched  now  on  the 
raw.  "What  do  the  fools  know  about  it?  I  suppose  the 
Daily  Mail  will  scream,  but,  thank  God,  this  country  has  not 
quite  gone  to  the  dogs  yet.  The  people,  indeed !  The  mass 
of  the  country  is  solid  for  sense  and  business,  and  trusts  the 
Government.    Of  course,  the  Tory  press  will  make  the  whole 


8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

question  a  party  lever  if  it  can,  but  it  can't.  What !  Are 
we  going  to  be  pushed  into  war  by  a  mob  and  a  few  journal- 
ists? Why,  Labour  even  will  be  dead  against  it.  Come^ 
Graham,  you  ought  to  know  something  about  that.  More 
in  your  line  than  mine — don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"You  really  ought  not  to  let  the  maids  talk  so,"  said  Mrs. 
Lessing  gently. 

Peter  glanced  at  her  with  a  curiously  hopeless  feeling,  and 
looked  slowly  round  the  room  until  his  eyes  rested  on  Mr. 
Lessing's  portrait  over  the  mantelshelf,  presented  by  the 
congregation  of  St.  John's  on  some  occasion  two  years  before. 
From  the  portrait  he  turned  to  the  gentleman,  but  it  was 
not  necessary  for  him  to  speak.  Mr.  Lessing  was  saying 
something  to  the  man — probably  ordering  the  car.  He 
glanced  across  at  Hilda,  who  had  made  some  reply  to  her 
mother  and  was  toying  with  a  spoon.  He  thought  he  had 
never  seen  her  look  more  handsome  and  .  .  .  He  could  not 
find  the  word :  thought  of  "solid,"  and  then  smiled  at  the 
thought.    It  did  not  (it  in  with  the  sunlight  on  her  hair. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Lessing  ;  "we  ought  to  make  a  move. 
It  won't  do  for  either  of  us  to  be  late,  Mr.  Preacher." 

The  congregation  of  St.  John's  assembled  on  a  Sunday 
morning  as  befitted  its  importance  and  dignity.  Families 
arrived,  or  arrived  by  two  or  three  representatives,  and  pro- 
ceeded with  due  solemnity  to  their  private  pews.  No  one, 
of  course,  exchanged  greetings  on  the  way  up  the  church, 
but  every  lady  became  aware,  not  only  of  the  other  ladies 
present,  but  of  what  each  wore.  A  sidesman,  with  an  air  of 
portentous  gravity,  as  one  who,  in  opening  doors,  performed 
an  ofiice  more  on  behalf  of  the  Deity  than  the  worshippers, 
was  usually  at  hand  to  usher  the  party  in.  Once  there,  there 
was  some  stir  of  orderly  bustle:  kneelers  were  distributed 
according  to  requirements,  books  sorted  out  after  the  solemn 
unlocking  of  the  little  box  that  contained  them,  sticks  and 
hats  safely  stowed  away.  These  duties  performed,  pater- 
familias cast  one  penetrating  glance  round  the  church,  and 
leaned  gracefully  forward  with  a  kind  of  circular  motion. 


« 
^ 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


Having  suitably  addressed  Almighty  God  (it  is  to  be  sup- 
posed), he  would  lean  back,  adjust  his  trousers,  possibly 
place  an  elbow  on  the  pew-door,  and  contemplate  with  a 
fixed  and  determined  gaze  the  distant  altar. 

Peter,  of  course,  wound  in  to  solemn  music  with  the 
procession  jf  choir  boys  and  men,  and,  accorded  the  honour 
of  a  beadle  with  a  silver  mace,  since  he  was  to  preach,  was 
finally  insfalled  in  a  suitably  cushioned  seat  within  the  altar- 
rails.  He  knelt  to  pray,  but  it  was  an  effort  to  formulate 
anything.  He  was  intensely  conscious  that  morning  that  a 
meaning  hitherto  unfclt  and  unguessed  lay  behind  his  world, 
and  even  behind  all  this  pomp  and  ceremony  that  he  knew 
so  well.  Rising,  of  course,  when  the  senior  curate  began  to 
intone  the  opening  sentence  in  a  manner  which  one  felt  was 
worthy  even  of  St.  John's,  he  allowed  himself  to  study  his 
surroundings  as  never  before. 

The  church  had,  indeed,  an  air  of  great  beauty  in  the 
morning  sunlight.  The  Renaissance  galleries  and  woodwork, 
mellowed  by  time,  were  dusted  by  that  soft  warm  glow,  and 
the  somewhat  sparse  congregation,  in  its  magnificendy 
isolated  groups,  was  humanised  by  it  too.  The  stone  of  the 
chancel,  flecked  with  colour,  had  a  quiet  dignity,  and  even 
the  altar,  ecclesiastically  ludicrous,  had  a  grace  of  its  own. 
There  was  to  be  a  celebration  after  Matins.  The  historic 
gold  plate  was  therefore  arranged  on  the  retable  with  some- 
thing of  tlie  effect  of  show  pieces  at  Mappin  and  Webb's. 
Peter  noticed  three  flagons,  and  between  them  two  patens  of 
great  size.  A  smaller  pair  for  use  stood  on  the  credence- 
table.  The  gold  chalice  and  paten,  veiled,  stood  on  the 
altar-table  itself,  and  above  them,  behind,  rose  the  cross  and 
two  vases  of  hot-house  lilies.  Suggesting  one  of  the  great 
shields  of  beaten  gold  that  King  Solomon  had  made  for  the 
Temple  of  Jerusalem,  an  alms-dish  stood  on  edge,  and  leant 
against  the  retable  to  the  right  of  the  veiled  chalice.  Peter 
found  himself  mar\'elling  at  its  size,  but  was  recalled  to  his 
position  when  it  became  necessary  to  kneel  for  the  Confes- 
sion. 


lo  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

The  service  followed  its  accustomed  course,  and  through- 
out the  whole  of  it  Peter  was  conscious  of  his  chaotic  sermon. 
He  glanced  at  his  notes  occasionally,  and  then  put  them 
resolutely  away,  well  aware  that  they  would  be  all  hut  useless 
to  him.  Either  he  would,  at  the  last,  be  able  to  formulate 
the  thoughts  that  raced  through  his  head,  or  else  he  could  do 
no  more  than  occupy  the  pulpit  for  the  corventional  twenty 
minutes  with  a  conventional  sermon.  At  times  he  half 
thought  he  would  follow  this  easier  course,  but  then  the 
great  letters  of  the  newspaper  poster  seemed  to  frame  them- 
selves before  him,  and  he  knew  he  could  not.  And  so,  at 
last,  there  was  the  bowing  beadle  with  the  silver  mace,  and 
he  must  set  out  on  the  little  dignified  procession  to  the  great 
Jacobean  pulpit  with  its  velvet  cushion  at  the  top. 

Hilda's  mind  was  a  curious  study  during  that  sermon.  At 
first,  as  her  lover's  rather  close-cropped,  dark-haired  head 
appeared  in  sight,  she  had  studied  him  with  an  odd  mixture  of 
pride  and  apprehension.  She  held  her  hymn-book,  but  she  did 
not  need  it,  and  she  watched  surreptitiously  while  he  opened 
the  Bible,  arranged  some  papers,  and,  in  accordance  with 
custom,  knelt  to  pray.  She  began  to  think  half-lhoughts  of 
the  days  that  might  be,  when  perhaps  she  would  be  the  wife 
of  the  Rector  of  some  St.  John's,  and  later,  possibly,  of  a 
Bishop.  Peter  had  it  in  him  to  go  far,  she  knew.  She  half 
glanced  round  with  a  self-conscious  feeling  that  people 
might  be  guessing  at  her  thoughts,  and  then  back,  wondering 
suddenly  if  she  really  knew  the  man,  or  only  the  minister. 
And  then  there  came  the  rustle  of  shutting  books  and  of 
people  composing  themselves  to  listen,  the  few  coughs,  the 
vague  suggestion  of  hassocks  and  cushions  being  made  com- 
fortable. And  then,  in  a  moment,  almost  with  the  giving  out 
of  the  text,  the  sudden  stillness  and  that  tense  sensation  which 
told  that  the  young  orator  had  gripped  his  congregation. 

Thereafter  she  hardly  heard  him,  as  it  were,  and  she  cer- 
tainly lost  the  feeling  of  ownership  that  had  been  hers  before. 
As  he  leaned  over  the  pulpit,  and  the  words  rang  out  almost 
harshly  from  their  intensity,  she  began  to  see,  as  the  rest  of 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  ii 

the  congregation  began  to  see,  the  images  that  the  preacher 
conjured  up  before  her.  A  sense  of  coming  disaster  riveted 
her — the  feehng  that. she  was  already  watching  the  end  of 
an  age. 

"Jesus  had  compassion  on  the  multitude" — that  had  been 
the  short  and  simple  text.  Simple  words,  the  preacher  had 
said,  but  .how  when  one  realised  Who  had  had  compassion, 
and  on  what?  Almighty  God  Himself,  with  His  incarnate 
Mind  set  on  the  working  out  of  immense  and  agelong  plans, 
had,  as  it  were,  paused  for  a  moment  to  have  compassion  on 
hungry  women  and  crying  babies  and  folk  whose  petty 
confused  affairs  could  have  seemed  of  no  consequence  to 
anyone  in  the  drama  of  the  world.  And  then,  with  a  few 
terse  sentences,  the  preacher  swung  from  that  instance  to 
the  world  drama  of^b-day.  Did  they  realise,  he  asked,  that 
peaceful  bright  Sunday  morning,  that  millions  of  simple  men 
were  at  that  moment  being  hurled  at  each  other  to  maim  and 
kill?  At  the  bidding  of  ix)wers  that  even  they  could  hardly 
visualise,  at  the  behest  of  world  politics  that  not  one  in  a 
thousand  would  understand  and  scarcely  any  justify,  houses 
were  being  broken  up,  women  were  weeping,  and  children 
playing  in  tlie  sun  before  cottage  doors  were  even  now  being 
left  fatherless.  It  was  incredible,  colossal,  unimaginable,  but  as 
one  tried  to  picture  it.  Hell  had  opened  her  mouth  and  Death 
gone  forth  to  slay.  It  was  terrible  enough  that  battlefields 
of  stupendous  size  should  soon  be  littered  with  the  dying 
and  the  dead,  but  the  aftermath  of  such  a  war  as  this  would 
be  still  more  terrible.  No  one  could  say  how  near  it  would 
come  to  them  all.  No  one  could  tell  what  revolution  in 
morals  and  social  order  such  a  war  as  this  might  not  bring. 
That  day  God  Himself  looked  down  on  the  multitude  as 
sheep  having  no  shepherd,  abandoned  to  be  butchered  by  the 
wolves,  and  His  heart  beat  with  a  divine  compassion  for  the 
infinite  sorrows  of  the  world. 

There  was  little  more  to  it.  An  exhortation  to  go  home 
to  fear  and  pray  and  set  the  house  in  order  against  the  Day 
of  Wrath,  and  that  was  all.    "Aly  brethren,"  said  the  young 


12  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

man — and  the  intensity  of  his  thought  lent  a  certain  unusual 
solemnity  to  the  conventional  title — "no  one  can  tell  how  the 
events  of  this  week  may  affect  us.  Our  feet  may  even  now 
be  going  down  into  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  temptation, 
of  conflict,  of  death,  and  even  now  there  may  be  preparing 
for  us  a  chalice  such  as  we  shall  fear  to  drink.  Let  us  pray 
that  in  that  hour  the  compassion  of  Jesus  may  be  real  to  us, 
and  we  ourselves  find  a  sure  place  in  that  sorrowful  Heart." 

And  he  was  gone  from  the  pulpit  without  another  word. 
It  would  have  been  almost  ridiculous  if  one  had  noted  that 
the  surprised  beadle  had  had  no  "And  now  to  God  the 
Father  .  .  ."  in  which  to  reach  the  pulpit,  and  had  been 
forced  to  meet  his  victim  hurrying  halfway  up  the  chancel; 
but  perhaps  no  one  but  that  dignitary,  whom  the  fall  of 
thrones  would  not  shake,  had  noticed  it.  The  congregation 
paid  the  preacher  the  great  compliment  of  sitting  on  in 
absolute  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  For  a  moment  it  still 
stared  reality  in  the  face.  And  then  Mr.  Lessing  shifted  in 
his  pew  and  coughed,  and  the  Rector  rose,  pompously  as 
usual,  to  announce  the  hymn,  and  Hilda  became  conscious 
of  unaccustomed  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  senior  curate  solemnly  uncovered  and  removed  the 
chalice.  Taking  bread  and  wine,  he  deposited  the  sacred 
vessels  at  the  north  end  of  the  altar,  returned  to  the  centre, 
unfolded  the  corporal,  received  the  alms,  and  as  solemnly 
set  the  great  gold  dish  on  the  corporal  itself,  after  the  un- 
meaning custom  of  the  church.  And  then  came  the  long 
prayer  and  the  solemn  procession  to  the  vestry,  while  a  dozen 
or  two  stayed  with  the  senior  curate  for  the  Communion. 

Graham  found  himself  in  the  little  inner  vestry,  with  its 
green-cloth  table  and  massive  inkstand  and  registers,  and 
began  to  unvest  mechanically.  He  got  his  coat  out  of  the 
beautiful  ca^-ved  wardrobe,  and  was  folding  up  his  hood  and 
surplice,  when  the  Rector  laid  a  patronising  hand  on  his 
shoulder.  "A  good  sermon,  Graham,"  he  said — "a  good 
sermon,  if  a  little  emotional.  It  was  a  pity  you  forgot  the 
doxology.    But  it  is  a  great  occasion,  I  fear  a  greater  occasion 


"      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  13 

than  we  know,  and  yoti  rose  to  it  very  well.  Last  night  I 
had  half  a  mind  to  'phone  you  not  to  come,  and  to  preach 
myself,  but  I  am  glad  now  I  did  not,  I  am  sure  we  are  very 
grateful.    Eh,  Sir  Robert?" 

Sir  Robert  Doyle,  the  other  warden,  was  making  neat  piles 
of  sovereigns  on  the  green  cloth,  while  Mr.  Lessing  counted 
the  silver -as  to  the  manner  born.  He  was  a  pillar  of  the 
church,  too,  was  Sir  Robert,  but  a  soldier  and  a  straight 
speaker.    He  turned  genially  to  the  young  man. 

"From  the  shoulder.  Rector,"  he  said.  "Perhaps  it  will 
make  a  few  of  us  sit  up  a  little.  Coming  down  to  church  I 
met  Arnold  of  the  War  Office,  and  he  said  war  was  certain. 
Of  course  it  is.  Germany  has  been  playing  up  for  it  for  years, 
and  we  fools  have  been  blind  and  mad.  But  it'll  come  now. 
Thank  God,  I  can  still  do  a  bit,  and  maybe  we  shall  meet 
out  there  yet — eh,  Mr.  Graham?" 

Somehow  or  another  that  aspect  of  the  question  had  not 
struck  Peter  forcibly  till  now.  He  had  been  so  occupied  with 
visualising  the  march  of  world  events  tliat  he  had  hardly 
thought  of  himself  as  one  of  the  multitude.  But  now  the 
question  struck  home.  What  would  he  do?  He  was  at  a 
loss  for  the  moment. 

The  Rector  saved  him,  however.  "Well,  well,  of  course, 
Sir  Robert,  apart  from  the  chaplains,  the  place  of  the  clergy 
will  be  almost  certainly  at  home.  Hospital  visiting,  and  so 
t»n,  will  take  a  lot  of  time.  I  believe  the  Chaplain-General's 
Department  is  fully  staffed,  but  doubtless,  if  there  is  any 
demand,  the  clergy  will  respond.  It  is,  of  course,  against 
Canon  Law  for  them  to  fight,  though  doubtless  our  young 
friend  would  like  to  do  his  share  in  that  if  he  could.  You 
were  in  the  O.T.C.  at  Oxford,  weren't  you,  Graham?" 

"Yes,"  said  Graham  shortly. 

"The  French  priests  are  mobilising  with  the  nation,"  said 
Sir  Robert. 

"Ah,  yes,  naturally,"  replied  the  Rector ;  "that  is  one 
result  of  the  recent  anti-clerical  legislation.  Thank  God,  this 
country  has  been  spared  that,  and  in  any  case  we  shall  nev  "• 


14  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

have  conscription.  Probably  the  Army  will  have  to  be 
enlarged — half  a  million  will  be  required  at  least,  I  should 
think.  That  will  mean  more  chaplains,  but  I  should  suppose 
the  Bishops  will  select — oh,  yes,  surely  their  lordships  will 
select.  It  would  be  a  pity  for  you  to  go,  Graham ;  it's  rough 
work  with  the  Tommies,  and  your  gifts  are  wanted  at  home. 
The  Vicar  of  St.  Thomas's  speaks  very  highly  of  your  gifts 
as  an  organiser,  and  doubtless  some  sphere  will  be  opened  up 
for  you.  Well,  well,  these  are  stirring  times.  Good-morning, 
Mr.  Graham." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  the  young  man.  Mr.  Lessing, 
carefully  smoothing  his  silk  hat,  looked  up.  "Come  in  to 
luncheon  with  us,  will  you,  Graham  ?"  he  said. 

Peter  assented,  and  shook  hands  all  round.  Sir  Robert 
and  he  moved  out  together,  and  the  baronet  caught  his  eye 
in  the  porch.  "This'll  jog  him  up  a  bit,  I'm  thinking,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "There's  stutT  in  that  chap,  but  he's  got  to 
feel  his  legs." 

Outside  the  summer  sun  was  now  powerful,  and  the  streets 
were  dusty  and  more  busy.  The  crowd  liad  thinned  at  the 
church  door,  but  Hilda  and  Mrs.  Lessing  were  waiting  for 
the  car. 

"Don't  let's  drive,"  said  Hilda  as  they  came  up;  "I'd  much 
sooner  walk  home  to-day." 

Her  father  smiled  paternally.  "Bit  cramped  after  church, 
eh?"  he  said.  "Well,  what  do  you  say,  dear?"  he  asked  his 
wife. 

"I  think  I  shall  drive,"  Mrs.  Lessing  replied;  "but  if  Mr. 
Graham  is  coming  to  luncheon,  perhaps  he  will  walk  round 
with  Hilda.    Will  you,  Mr.  Graham?" 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Peter.  "I  agree  with  Miss  Lessing, 
and  the  walk  will  be  jolly.  We'll  go  tlirough  the  park.  It's 
less  than  half  an  hour,  isn't  it?" 

It  was  arranged  at  that,  and  the  elders  drove  oflF.  Peter 
raised  his  hat  to  Sir  Robert,  who  turned  up  the  street,  and 
together  he  and  Hilda  crossed  over  the  wide  thoroughfare 
and  started  down  for  tlie  park. 


SlMoN  CALLED  PETER  15 

There  was  silence  for  a  little,  and  it  was  Peter  who  broke  it. 

"Just  before  breakfast,"  he  said,  "you  asked  me  what  I 
should  do,  and  I  had  no  chance  to  reply.  Well,  tliey  were 
talking  of  it  in  the  vestry  just  now,  and  I've  made  up  my 
mind.  I  shall  write  to-night  to  the  Bishop  and  ask  for  a 
chaplaincy." 

They  walked  on  a  hundred  yards  or  so  in  silence  again. 
Then  Hilda  broke  it.  "Peter,"  she  began,  and  stopped.  He 
glanced  at  her  quickly,  and  saw  in  a  minute  that  the  one 
word  had  spoken  truly  to  him. 

"Oh,  Hilda,"  he  said,  "do  you  really  care  all  that?  You 
can't  possibly !  Oh,  if  we  were  not  here,  and  I  could  tell  you 
all  I  feel !  But,  dear,  I  love  you ;  I  know  now  that  I  have 
loved  you  for  months,  and  it  is  just  because  I  love  you  that 
I  must  go." 

"Peter,"  began  Hilda  again,  and  again  stopped.  Then 
she  took  a  grip  of  herself,  and  spoke  out  bravely.  "Oh, 
Peter,"  she  said,  "you've  guessed  right.  I  never  meant  you 
to — at  least,  not  yet,  but  it  is  terrible  to  think  of  you  going 
out  there.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  glad  and  proud,  and  in 
a  way  I  am,  but  you  don't  seem  the  right  person  for  it.  It's 
wasting  you.  And  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  without  you. 
You've  become  the  centre  of  my  life.  I  count  on  seeing  you, 
and  on  working  with  you.  If  you  go,  you.  you  may  .  .  .  Oh, 
I  can't  say  it !  I  ought  not  to  say  all  this.  But  .  .  ."  She 
broke  ofif  abruptly. 

Graham  glanced  round  him.  They  were  in  the  park  now, 
and  no  one  in  particular  was  about  in  the  quiet  of  the  side- 
walk. He  put  his  hand  out,  and  drew  her  gently  to  a  seat. 
Then,  leaning  forward  and  poking  at  the  ground  with  his 
stick,  he  began.  "Hilda,  darling,"  he  said,  "it's  awful  to 
have  to  speak  to  you  just  now  and  just  like  this,  but  I  must. 
First,  about  ourselves.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  only 
that's  so  little  to  say;  I  love  you  so  much  that  you  fill  my 
life.  And  I  have  planned  my  life  with  you.  I  hardly  knew 
it,  but  I  had.  I  thought  I  should  just  go  on  and  get  a  living 
and  marry  you — perhaps,  if  you  would  (I  can  hardly  speal< 


;i6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

of  it  now  I  know  you  would) — and — and — oh,  I  don't  know 
— make  a  name  in  the  Church,  I  suppose.  Well,  and  I  hope 
we  shall  one  day,  hut  now  this  has  come  along.  I  really  feel 
all  I  said  this  morning,  awfully.  I  shall  go  out — I  must. 
The  men  must  be  helped ;  one  can't  sit  still  and  imagine  them 
dying,  wounded,  tempted,  and  without  a  priest.  It's  a  su- 
preme chance.  We  shall  be  fighting  for  honour  and  truth, 
and  the  Church  must  be  there  to  bear  her  witness  and  speak 
her  message.  There  will  be  no  end  to  do.  And  it  is  a  chance 
of  a  lifetime  to  get  into  touch  with  the  men,  and  understand 
them.  You  do  see  that,  don't  you?  And,  besides — forgive 
me,  but  I  must  put  it  so — if  He  had  compassion  on  the 
multitude,  ought  we  not  to  have  too?  He  showed  it  by 
death ;  ought  we  to  fear  even  that  too  ?" 

The  girl  stole  out  a  hand,  and  his  gripped  it  hard.  Then 
.she  remembered  the  conventions  and  pulled  it  away,  and  sat 
a  little  more  upright.  She  was  extraordinarily  conscious  of 
herself,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  had  two  selves  that  day.  One 
was  Hilda  Lessing,  a  girl  she  knew  quite  well,  a  well-trained 
person  who  understood  life,  and  the  business  of  society  and 
of  getting  married,  quite  correctly;  and  the  other  was  some- 
body she  did  not  know  at  all,  that  could  not  reason,  and  who 
felt  naked  and  ashamed.  It  was  inexplicable,  but  it  was 
so.  That  second  self  was  listening  to  heroics  and  even  talking 
them,  and  surely  heroics  were  a  little  out  of  date. 

She  looked  across  a  wide  green  space,  and  saw,  through 
the  distant  trees,  the  procession  of  the  cliurch  parade.  She 
felt  as  if  she  ought  to  be  there,  and  half  unconsciously 
glanced  at  her  dress.  A  couple  of  terriers  ran  scurrying 
across  the  grass,  and  a  seat-ticket  man  came  round  the  corner. 
Behind  them  a  taxi  hooted,  and  some  sparrows  broke  out  into 
a  noisy  chatter  in  a  bush.  And  here  was  Peter  talking  of 
death,  and  the  Cross — and  out  of  church,  too. 

She  gave  a  little  shudder,  and  glanced  at  a  wrist-watch. 
"Peter,"  she  said,  "we  must  go.  Dear,  for  my  sake,  do  think 
it  over.  Wait  a  little,  and  see  what  happens.  I  quite  under- 
stand your  point  of  view,  but  you  must  think  of  others — even 


"      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  17 

your  Vicar,  my  parents,  and  of  me.  And  Peter,  shall  we 
say  anything  about  our — our  love?    What  do  you  think?" 

Peter  Graham  looked  at  her  steadily,  and  as  she  spoke  he, 
too,  felt  the  contrast  between  his  thoughts  and  ordinary  life. 
The  London  curate  was  himself  again.  He  got  up.  "Well, 
darling,"  he  said,  "just  as  you  like,  but  perhaps  not — at  any 
rate  until -I  know  what  I  have  to  do.  I'll  think  that  over. 
Only,  we  shan't  change,  shall  we,  whatever  happens?  You 
do  love  me,  don't  you?    And  I  do  love  you." 

Hilda  met  his  gaze  frankly  and  blushed  a  little.  She  held 
out  a  hand  to  be  helped  up.    "My  dear  boy,"  she  said. 

After  luncheon  Peter  smoked  a  cigar  in  the  study  with 
Mr.  Lessing  before  departure.  Every  detail  of  that  hour 
impressed  itself  uix)n  him  as  had  the  events  of  the  day,  for 
his  mind  was  strung  up  to  see  the  inner  meaning  of  things 
clearly. 

They  began  with  the  usual  ritual  of  the  selection  of  chairs 
and  cigars,  and  Mr.  Lessing  had  a  glass  of  port  with  his 
coffee,  because,  as  he  explained,  his  nerves  were  all  on  edge. 
Comfortably  stretched  out  in  an  armchair,  blowing  smoke 
thoughtfully  towards  the  empty  grate,  his  fat  face  and  body 
did  not  seem  capable  of  nerves,  still  less  to  be  suffering  from 
them,  but  then  one  can  never  tell  from  appearances.  At 
any  rate  he  chose  his  w'ords  with  care,  and  Graham,  oppo- 
site but  sitting  rather  upright,  could  not  but  sense  his  mean- 
ing. 

"Well,  well,  well,"  he  said,  "to  think  we  should  come  to 
this !  A  European  war  in  this  century,  and  we  in  it !  Not 
that  I'll  believe  it  till  I  hear  it  officially.  While  there's  hfe 
there's  hope,  eh,  Graham?" 

Peter  nodded,  for  he  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

"The  question  is,"  went  on  the  other,  "that  if  we  are  car- 
ried into  war,  what  is  the  best  policy?  Some  fools  will  lose 
their  heads,  of  course,  and  chuck  everything  to  run  into  it. 
But  I've  no  use  for  fools,  Graham." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Peter. 

"No  use  for  fools,"  repeated  Mr.  Lessing.    "I  shall  carry 


i8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

on  with  business  as  usual,  and  I  hope  other  people  will  carry 
on  with  theirs.  There  are  plenty  of  men  who  can  fight,  and 
who  ought  to,  without  disorganising  everything,  Hilda 
would  see  that  too — she's  such  a  sensible  girl.  Look  at  that 
Boer  affair,  and  all  that  foolery  about  the  C.LV.  Why,  I 
met  a  South  African  at  the  club  the  other  day  who  said  we'd 
have  done  ten  times  as  well  without  'em.  You  must  have 
trained  men  these  days,  and,  after  all,  it's  the  men  behind 
the  armies  that  win  the  war.  Men  like  you  and  I,  Graham, 
each  doing  his  ordinary  job  without  excitement.  That's  the 
type  that's  made  old  England.  You  ought  to  preach  about 
it,  Graham.  Come  to  think,  it  fits  in  with  what  you  said 
this  morning,  and  a  good  sermon  too,  young  man.  Every 
man's  got  to  put  his  house  in  order  and  carry  on.  You 
meant  that,  didn't  you  ?" 

"Something  like  that,"  said  Peter;  "but  as  far  as  the 
clergy  are  concerned,  I  still  think  the  Bishops  ought  to  pick 
their  men." 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Lessing,  stretching  himself 
a  bit.  "But  I  don't  think  the  clergy  could  be  much  use  ovtt 
there.  As  the  Canon  said,  there  will  be  plenty  to  do  at  home. 
In  any  case  it  would  be  no  use  rushing  the  Bishops.  Let 
them  see  what's  needed,  and  then  let  them  choose  their  men, 
eh?  A  man  like  London's  sure  to  be  in  the  know.  Good 
thing  he's  your  Bishop,  Graham:  you  can  leave  it  to  him 
easily  ?" 

"I  should  think  so,  sir,"  said  Peter  forlornly. 

"Oh,  well,  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,  I'm  sure,  Graham,  and 
so  will  Mrs.  Lessing  be,  and  Hilda.  We're  old-fashioned 
folk,  you  know.  .  .  .  Well,  well,  and  I  suppose  I  oughtn't 
to  keep  you.    I'll  come  with  you  to  the  door,  my  boy." 

He  walked  ahead  of  the  young  man  into  the  hall,  and 
handed  him  his  hat  himself.  On  the  steps  they  shook  hands 
tb  the  fire  of  small  sentences.  "Drop  in  some  evening,  won't 
you?  Don't  know  if  I  really  congratulated  you  on  the 
sermon;  you  spoke  extraordinarily  well,  Graham.  You've 
a  great  gift.    After  all,  this  war  will  give  you  a  bit  of  a 


:  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  19 

chance,  eh?  We  must  hear  you  again  in  St.  John's.  .  .  . 
Good-afternoon. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Lessing,"  said  Graham,  "and  thank 
you  for  all  you've  said." 

In  the  street  he  walked  slowly,  and  he  thought  of  all  Mr. 
Lessing  had  not  said  as  well  as  all  he  had.  After  all,  he 
had  spoken  "sound  sense,  and  there  was  Hilda.  He  couldn't 
lose  Hilda,  and  if  the  old  man  turned  out  obstinate — well,  it 
would  be  all  but  impossible  to  get  her.  Probably  things 
were  not  as  bad  as  he  had  imagined.  Very  likely  it  would 
all  be  over  by  Christmas.  If  so,  it  was  not  much  use  throw- 
ing everything  up.  Perhaps  he  could  word  the  letter  to  the 
Bishop  a  little  ditTerently.  He  turned  over  phrases  all  the 
way  home,  and  got  them  fairly  pat.  But  it  was  a  busy 
evening,  and  he  did  not  write  that  night. 

Monday  always  began  as  a  full  day,  what  with  staff 
meeting  and  so  on,  and  its  being  Bank  Holiday  did  not  make 
much  difference  to  them.  But  in  the  afternoon  he  was  free 
to  read  carefully  the  Sunday  papers,  and  was  appalled  with 
the  swiftness  of  the  approach  of  the  universal  cataclysm, 
After  Evensong  and  supper,  then,  he  got  out  paper  and  pen 
and  wrote,  though  it  took  much  longer  than  he  thought  it 
would.  In  the  end  he  begged  the  Bishop  to  remember  him 
if  it  was  really  necessary  to  find  more  chaplains,  and  ex- 
pressed his  readiness  to  serve  tlie  Church  and  the  country 
when  he  was  wanted.  When  it  was  written,  he  sat  long 
over  the  closed  envelope  and  smoked  a  couple  of  pipes.  He 
wondered  if  men  were  killing  each  other,  even  now,  just 
over  the  water.  He  pictured  a  battle  scene,  drawing  from 
imagination  and  what  he  remembered  of  field-days  at  Alder- 
shot.  He  shuddered  a  little  as  he  conceived  himself  crawling 
through  heather  to  reach  a  man  in  the  front  line  who  had  been 
hit,  while  the  enemies'  guns  on  the  crest  opposite  were  firing 
as  he  had  seen  them  fire  in  play.  He  tried  to  imagine  what 
it  would  be  like  to  be  hit. 

Then  he  got  up  and  stretched  himself.  Pie  looked  round 
crriously  at  the  bookcase,  the  Oxford  group  or  two,  the 


20  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

hockey  cap  that  hung  on  the  edge  of  one.  He  turned  to  the 
mantelpiece  and  glanced  over  the  photos.  Probably  Bob 
Scarlett  would  be  out  at  once ;  he  was  in  some  Irish  regiment 
or  other.  Old  Howson  was  in  India ;  he  wouldn't  hear  or 
see  much.  Jimmy — what  would  Jimmy  do,  now?  He 
picked  up  the  photograph  and  looked  at  it — the  clean-shaven, 
thoughtful,  good-looking  face  of  the  best  fellow  in  the  world, 
who  had  got  his  fellowship  almost  at  once  after  his  brilliant 
degree,  and  was  just  now,  he  reflected,  on  holiday  in  the 
South  of  France.  Jimmy,  the  idealist,  what  would  Jimmy 
do?  He  reached  for  a  hat  and  made  for  the  door.  He  would 
post  his  letter  that  night  under  the  stars. 

Once  outside,  he  walked  on  farther,  down  Westminster 
way.  At  the  Bridge  he  leaned  for  a  while  and  watched  the 
sullen,  tireless  river,  and  then  turned  to  walk  up  past  the 
House.  It  was  a  clear,  still  night,  and  the  street  was  fairly 
empty.  Big  Ben  boomed  eleven,  and  as  he  crossed  in  front 
of  the  gates  to  reach  St.  Margaret's  he  wondered  what  was 
doing  in  there.  He  had  the  vaguest  notion  where  people 
like  the  Prime  Minister  and  Sir  Edward  Grey  would  be  that 
night.  He  thought  possibly  with  the  King,  or  in  Downing 
Street.  And  then  he  heard  his  name  called,  and  turned  to 
see  Sir  Robert  Doyle  coming  towards  him. 

The  other's  face  arrested  him.  "Is  there  any  news,  Sir 
Robert?"  he  asked. 

Sir  Robert  glanced  up  in  his  turn  at  the  great  shining  dial 
above  them.  "Our  ultimatum  has  gone  or  is  just  going  to 
Germany,  and  in  twenty-four  hours  we  shall  be  at  war,"  he 
said  tersely.  "I'm  just  going  home;  I've  been  promised 
a  job." 


CHAPTER  II 

AT  7.10  on  a  foggy  February  morning  Victoria  Station, 
looked  a  place  of  mystery  within  which  a  mighty  work 
was  going  forward.  Electric  lights  still  shone  in  the  gloom, 
and  whereas  innumerable  units  of  life  ran  this  way  and  that 
like  ants  disturbed,  an  equal  number  stood  about  apparently 
indifferent  and  unperturbed.  Tommies  who  had  found  a 
place  against  a  wall  or  seat  deposited  rifle  and  pack  close  by, 
lit  a  pipe,  and  let  the  world  go  by,  content  that  when  the 
officers'  leave  train  had  gone  someone,  or  some  Providence, 
would  round  them  up  as  well.  But,  for  the  rest,  porters,  male 
and  female,  rushed  up  with  baggage;  trunks  were  pushed 
through  the  crowd  with  the  usual  objurgations;  subalterns, 
mostly  loud  and  merry,  greeted  each  other  or  the  officials,  or, 
more  subdued,  moved  purposefully  through  the  crowd  with 
their  women-folk,  intent  on  finding  a  quieter  place  farther 
up  the  platforms. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  leave  platform  or  the  time  of 
the  train,  for  a  great  notice  drew  one's  attention  to  it.  Once 
there,  the  Army  took  a  man  in  hand.  Peter  was  entirely 
new  to  the  process,  but  he  speedily  discovered  that  his  fear 
of  not  knowing  what  to  do  or  where  to  go,  which  had  in- 
duced him  (among  other  reasons)  to  say  good-bye  at  home 
and  come  alone  to  the  station,  was  unfounded.  Red-caps 
passed  him  on  respectfully  but  purposefully  to  officials,  who 
looked  at  this  paper  and  that,  and  finally  sent  him  up  to  an 
officer  who  sat  at  a  little  table  with  papers  before  him  to 
write  down  the  name,  rank,  unit,  and  destination  of  each 
individual  destined  that  very  morning  to  leave  for  the  Army 
in  France. 

Peter  at  last,  then,  was  free  to  walk  up  the  platform,  and 

ai 


«2  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

seek  the  rest  of  his  luggage  that  had  come  on  from  the  hotel 
with  the  porter.  He  was  free,  that  is,  if  one  disregarded  the 
kit  hung  about  his  person,  or  which,  despite  King's  Regula- 
tion?, he  carried  in  his  hands.  But  free  or  not,  he  could  not 
find  his  luggage.  At  7.30  it  struck  him  that  at  least  he  had 
better  find  his  seat.  He  therefore  entered  a  corridor  and 
began  pilgrimage.  It  was  seemingly  hopeless.  The  seats 
were  filled  with  coats  or  sticks  or  papers;  every  type  of 
officer  was  engaged  in  bestowing  himself  and  his  goods;  and 
the  general  atmosphere  struck  him  as  being  precisely  that 
which  one  experiences  as  a  fresher  when  one  first  enters 
hall  for  dinner  at  the  'Varsity.  The  comparison  was  very 
close.  First-year  men — that  is  to  say,  junior  officers  re- 
turning from  their  first  leave — were  the  most  encumbered, 
self-possessed,  and  asserting;  those  of  the  second  year,  so  to 
say,  usually  got  a  corner-seat  and  looked  out  of  window ; 
while  here  and  there  a  senior  officer,  or  a  subaltern  with  a 
senior's  face,  selected  a  place,  arranged  his  few  possessions, 
and  got  out  a  paper,  not  in  the  Oxford  manner,  as  if  he 
owned  the  place,  but  in  the  Cambridge,  as  if  he  didn't  care 
a  damn  who  did. 

Peter  made  a  horrible  hash  of  it.  He  tried  to  find  a  seat 
with  all  his  goods  in  his  hands,  not  realising  that  they  might 
have  been  deposited  anywhere  in  the  train,  and  found  when 
it  had  started,  since,  owing  to  a  particular  dispensation  of 
the  high  gods,  everything  that  passed  the  barrier  for  France 
got  there.  He  made  a  dive  for  one  place  and  sat  in  it,  never 
noting  a  thin  stick  in  the  corner,  and  he  cleared  out  with 
enormous  apologies  when  a  perfectly  groomed  Major  with 
an  exceedingly  pleasant  manner  mentioned  that  it  was  his 
seat,  and  carefully  put  the  stick  elsewhere  as  soon  as  Peter 
had  gone.  Finally,  at  the  end  of  a  carriage,  he  descried  a 
small  door  half  open,  and  inside  what  looked  like  an  empty 
seat.  He  pulled  it  open,  and  discovered  a  small,  select  com- 
partment with  a  centre  table  and  three  men  about  it,  all 
making  themselves  very  comfortable. 


,    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  23 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Peter,  "but  is  there  a  place 
vacant  for  one?" 

The  three  eyed  him  stonily,  and  he  knew  instinctively  that 
he  was  again  a  fresher  calling  on  the  second  year.  One,  a 
Captain,  raised  his  head  to  look  at  him  better.  He  was  a 
man  of  light  hair  and  blue,  alert  eyes,  wearing  a  cap  that, 
while  not  looking  dissipated,  somehow  conveyed  the  impres- 
sion that  its  owner  knew  all  about  things — a  cap,  too,  that 
carried  the  Springbok  device.  The  lean  face,  with  its  hu- 
morous niouih,  regarded  Peter  and  took  him  all  in :  his  vast 
expanse  of  collar,  the  wide  black  edging  to  his  shoulder- 
straps,  his  brand-new  badges,  his  black  buttons  and  stars. 
Then  he  lied  remorselessly : 

"Sorry,  padre;  we're  full  up." 

Peter  backed  out  and  forgot  to  close  the  door,  for  at  that 
moment  a  shrill  whistle  was  excruciatingly  blown.  He  found 
himself  in  the  very  cab  of  the  Pullman  with  the  glass  door 
before  him,  through  which  could  be  seen  a  sudden  bustle. 
Subalterns  hastened  forward  from  the  more  or  less  secluded 
spots  that  they  had  found,  with  a  vision  of  skirts  and  hats 
behind  thein ;  an  inspector  passed  aggressively  along ;  and — 
thanks  to  those  high  gods — Peter  observed  the  hurrying  hotel 
porter  at  that  moment.  In  sixty  seconds  the  door  had  been 
jerked  open;  a  gladstone,  a  suit-case,  and  a  kit-bag  shot  at 
him ;  largesse  had  changed  hands ;  the  door  had  shut  again ; 
the  train  had  gro^^ned  and  started ;  and  Peter  was  off  to 
France. 

It  was  with  mixed  feelings  that  he  groped  for  his  luggage. 
He  was  conscious  of  wanting  a  seat  and  a  breakfast;  he  was 
also  conscious  of  wanting  to  look  at  the  station  he  was 
leaving,  which  he  dimly  felt  he  might  never  see  again ;  and 
he  was,  above  all,  conscious  that  he  looked  a  fool  and  would 
like  not  to.  In  such  a  turmoil  he  lugged  at  the  gladstone  and 
got  it  into  a  corner,  and  then  turned  to  the  window  in  the 
cleared  space  with  a  determination.  In  turning  he  caught 
the  Captain's  ^»«e  stuck  round  the  little  door.    It  was  with- 


24  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

drawn  at  once,  but  came  out  again,  and  he  heard  for  the 
second  time  the  unfamiliar  title: 

"Say,  padre;  come  in  here.  There's  room  after  all." 
Peter  felt  cheered.  He  staggered  to  the  door,  and  found 
the  others  busy  making  room.  A  subaltern  of  the  A.S.C. 
gripped  his  small  attache  case  and  swung  it  up  on  to  the  rack. 
The  South  African  pulled  a  British  warm  oflf  the  vacant  seat 
and  reached  out  for  the  suitcase.  And  the  third  man,  with 
the  rank  of  a  Major  and  the  badge  of  a  bursting  bomb,  struck 
a  match  and  paused  as  he  lit  a  cigarette  to  jerk  out : 

"Damned  full  train!     We  ought  to  have  missed  it,  Dono- 


van." 


"It's  a  good  stunt  that,  if  too  many  blighters  don't  try  it 
on."  observed  the  subaltern,  reaching  for  Peter's  warm. 
"But  they  did  my  last  leave,  and  I  got  the  devil  of  a  choking 
off  from  the  brass-hat  in  charge.  It's  the  SiatT  train,  and 
they  only  take  Prime  Ministers,  journalists,  and  trade-union 
officials  in  addition.    How's  that,  padre?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter,  subsiding,  "It's  jolly  good  of  you 
to  take  me  in.  I  thought  I'd  got  to  stand  from  here  to 
Folkestone." 

H.  P.  Jcnks,  Second-Lieutenant  A.S.C,  regarded  him 
seriously.  "It  couldn't  be  done,  padre,"  he  said,  "not  at  this 
hour  of  the  morning.  I  left  Kaling  about  midnight  more  or 
less,  got  sandwiched  in  the  Metro  with  a  Brigadier-General 
and  his  blooming  wife  and  daughters,  and  had  to  wait  God 
knows  how  long  for  the  R.  T.  O.  If  I  couldn't  get  a  seat 
and  a  breakfast  after  that,  I'd  be  a  casualty,  sure  thing." 

"It's  your  own  fault  for  going  home  last  night,"  observed 
the  Major  judiciously.  (Peter  noticed  that  he  was  little 
older  than  Jenks  on  inspection.)  "Gad,  Donovan,  you 
should  have  been  with  us  at  the  Adelphi!  It  was  some  do- 
I  can  tell  you.    And  afterwards  .  .  ." 

"Shut  up,  Major !"  cut  in  Jenks.    "Remember  the  padre." 

"Oh,  he's  broad-minded  I  know,  aren't  you,  padre?  By 
the  way,  did  you  ever  meet  old  Drennan  who  was  up  near 
Poperinghe  with  the  Canadians?    He  was  a  sport,  I  can  tel 


r    SIMOxN  CALLED  PETER  23 

jTOU.  Mind  you,  a  real  good  chap  at  his  job,  but  a  white  man. 
Pluck!  By  jo\e!  I  don't  think  that  chap  had  nerves.  I 
saw  him  one  day  when  they  were  dropping  heavy  stuff  on 
the  station,  and  he  was  getting  some  casualties  out  of  a  Red 
Cross  train.  A  shell  burst  just  down  the  embankment,  and 
his  two  orderlies  ducked  for  it  under  the  carriage,  but  old 
Drennan  ne\cr  turned  a  hair.  'Belter  have  a  fag,'  he  said  to 
the  Scottie  he  was  helping.  'It's  no  use  letting  Fritz  put  one 
off  one's  smoke.'  " 

Peter  said  he  had  not  met  him,  but  could  not  think  of 
anything  else  to  say  at  the  moment,  except  tliat  he  was  just 
going  out  for  the  first  time. 

"You  don't  say?"  said  Donovan  dryly. 

"Wish  I  was!"  ejaculated  Jcnks. 

"Good  chap,"  replied  the  Major.  "Pity  more  of  your  sort 
don't  come  over.  When  I  was  up  at  Loos,  September  last 
year,  we  didn't  see  a  padre  in  three  months.  Then  they  put 
on  a  little  chap — forget  his  name — who  used  to  bike  over 
when  we  were  in  rest  billets.  But  he  wasn't  much  use." 
,  "I  was  in  hospital  seven  weeks  and  never  saw  one,"  said 
Jenks. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Graham.  "But  Fve  been  trying  to 
get  out  for  all  these  years,  and  I  was  always  told  that  every 
billet  was  taken  and  that  there  were  hundreds  on  the  waiting 
list.  I^st  December  the  Chaplain-General  himself  showed 
me  a  list  of  over  two  hundred  names." 

"Don't  know  where  they  get  to,  then,  do  you,  Bevan?" 
asked  Jenks. 

"No,"  said  the  Major,  "unless  they  keep  'em  at  the  base." 

"Plenty  down  at  Rouen,  anyway,"  said  Donovan.  "A 
sporting  little  blighter  I  met  at  the  Brasserie  Opera  told  me 
he  hadn't  anything  to  do,  anyway." 

"I  shall  be  a  padre  in  the  next  war,"  said  Jenks,  stretching 
out  his  legs.  "A  parade  on  Sunday,  and  you're  finished  for 
the  week.  No  orderly  dog,  no  night  work,  and  plenty  of  time 
for  your  meals.  Padres  can  always  get  leave  too,  and  they 
always  come  and  go  by  Paris." 


26  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Donovan  laughed,  and  glanced  sideways  at  Peter.  "Stow 
it,  Jenks,"  he  said.    "Where  you  for,  padre?"  he  asked. 

"I've  got  to  report  at  Rouen,"  said  Peter.  "I  was  won- 
dering if  you  were  there." 

"No  such  luck  now,"  returned  the  other.  "But  it's  a  jolly 
place.  Jenko's  there.  Get  him  to  take  you  out  to  Duclair. 
You  can  get  roast  duck  at  a  pui)  there  that  melts  in  your 
mouth.  And  what's  that  little  hotel  near  the  statue  of  Joan 
of  Arc,  Jenks,  where  they  still  have  decent  wine?" 

Peter  was  not  to  learn  yet  awhile,  for  at  that  moment  the 
little  door  opened  and  a  waiter  looked  in.  "Breakfast, 
(gentlemen?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Jenks.  "Waiter,  I  always  bring  some 
/ations  with  me;  I'll  just  take  a  cup  of  colTee." 

The  man  grinned.  "Right-o,  sir,"  he  said.  "Porridge, 
gentlemen?" 

He  disappeared,  leaving  the  door  open  and,  Donovan 
Oldening  a  newspaper,  Graham  stared  out  of  window  to  wait. 
From  the  far  corners  came  scraps  of  conversation,  from 
which  he  gathered  that  Jenks  and  the  Major  were  going 
over  the  doings  of  the  night  before.  He  caught  a  word  or 
two,  and  stared  the  harder  out  of  window. 

Outside  the  English  country  was  rushing  by.  Little  villas, 
with  back-gardens  running  down  to  the  rail,  would  give 
way  for  a  mile  or  two  to  fields,  and  then  start  afresh.  The 
fog  was  thin  there,  and  England  looked  extraordinarily 
homely  and  pleasant.  It  was  the  known ;  he  was  conscious 
of  rushing  at  fifty  miles  an  hour  into  the  unknown.  He 
turned  over  the  scrappy  conversation  of  the  last  few  minutes, 
and  found  it  savoured  of  the  unknown.  It  was  curious  the 
ditTerence  uniform  made.  He  felt  that  these  men  were 
treating  him  more  like  one  of  themselves  than  men  in  a 
railway-carriage  had  ever  treated  him  before;  that  somehow 
even  his  badges  made  him  welcome ;  and  yet  that,  neverthe- 
less, it  was  not  he,  Peter  Graham,  that  they  welcomed,  or  at 
least  not  his  type.  He  wondered  if  padres  in  France  were 
different  from  priests  in  England.    He  turned  over  the  uo' 


*      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  a? 

known  Drennan  in  his  mind.  Was  it  because  he  was  a  good 
priest  that  tlie  men  liked  him,  or  because  they  had  discovered 
the  man  in  the  parson  ? 

The  waiter  brouglit  in  the  breakfast — porridge,  fish,  toast, 
and  the  rest — and  they  fell  to,  a  running  fire  of  comments 
going  on  all  the  time.  Donovan  had  had  Japanese  marmalade 
somewi'.ere,  and  thought  it  better  than  this.  The  Major 
wouldn't  touch  the  beastly  margarine,  but  Jenks  thought  it 
quite  as  good  as  butter  if  taken  with  marmalade,  and  put  it 
on  nearly  as  thickly  as  his  toast.  Peter  expanded  in  the  air 
of  camaraderie,  and  when  he  leaned  back  with  a  cigarette, 
tunic  unbuttoned  and  cap  tossed  up  on  the  rack,  he  felt  as  if 
he  had  been  in  the  Army  for  years.  He  reflected  how  curious 
that  was.  The  last  two  or  three  years  or  so  of  Bt)y  Scouts 
and  hospitals  and  extra  prayer-meetings,  attended  by  the 
people  who  attended  everything  else,  seemed  to  have  faded 
away.  There  was  hardly  a  gap  between  that  first  war 
evening  which  he  remembered  so  clearly  and  this.  It  was 
a  common  experience  enough,  and  probably  due  to  the  fact 
that,  whereas  everytiiing  else  had  made  little  impression,  he 
had  lived  for  this  moment  and  been  extraordinarily  im- 
pressed by  that  Sunday.  But  he  realised,  also,  that  it  was 
due  as  much  to  his  present  companions.  They  had,  seeming- 
ly, accepted  him  as  he  iiad  never  been  accepted  before.  They 
asked  practically  no  questions.  So  far  as  he  could  see,  he 
made  no  ditlerence  to  them.  He  felt  as  if  he  were  at  last 
part  of  a  great  brotherhood,  in  which,  chiefly,  one  worried 
about  nothing  more  important  than  Japanese  marmalade 
and  margarine. 

"We're  almost  there,  boys,"  said  Bevan,  peering  out  of 
window. 

"Curse!"  ejaculated  Jenks.  "I  hate  getting  my  traps  to- 
gether in  a  train,  and  I  loathe  the  mob  on  the  boat." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should,"  said  Donovan.  "I'm  blest 
if  I  bother  about  an>'thing.  The  R.T.O.  and  the  red-caps  do 
everything,  and  you  needn't  even  worry  about  getting  a 
Pullman  ticket  this  way  over.    Hope  it's  not  rough,  though." 


28  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

He  let  a  window  down  and  leaned  out.  "Looks  all  right,** 
he  added. 

Peter  got  up  with  the  rest  and  began  to  hang  things  about 
him.  His  staringly  new  Sam  Browne  irritated  him,  but  he 
forgot  it  as  the  train  swung  round  the  curve  to  the  landing- 
stage. 

"Get  a  porter  and  a  truck,  Donovan,''  said  the  Major,  who 
was  farthest  from  the  door. 

They  got  out  nonchalantly,  and  Peter  lit  a  cigarette,  while 
the  others  threw  remarks  at  the  man  as  to  luggage.  Then 
they  all  trooped  off  together  in  a  crowd  that  consisted  of 
every  variety  of  rank  and  regiment  and  section  of  the  Brit- 
ish Empire,  plus  some  Waacs  and  nurses. 

The  Fridc  of  Folkestone  lay  alongside,  and  when  they  got 
there  she  seemed  already  full.  The  four  of  them  got 
janmied  at  the  gangway  and  shoved  on  board,  handing  in 
and  receiving  papers  from  the  official  at  the  head  as  they 
passed  him.  Donovan  was  in  front,  and  as  he  stepped  on 
deck  he  swung  his  kit-bag  back  to  Peter,  crying : 

"Lay  hold  of  that,  padre,  and  edge  across  the  deck.  Get 
up  ahead  of  the  funnel  tliat  side.  I'll  get  chairs.  Jenko, 
you  rotter,  get  belts,  and  drop  eyeing  the  girl !" 

"Jolly  nice  bit  of  fluff,"  said  Jenks  meditatively,  staring 
fixedly  across  the  deck. 

"Where?"  queried  the  Major,  fumbling  for  his  eyeglass. 

"Get  on  there,  please,  gentlemen,"  called  a  ship's  official. 

"Damn  it!  mind  my  leg!" 

"Cheerio,  old  son,  here  we  are  again !" 

"I  say.  Tommy,  did  you  get  to  the  Alhambra  last  night, 
after  all  ?    What  ?    Well,  I  couldn't  see  you,  anyhow," 

To  which  accompaniment,  Peter  pushed  his  way  across 
the  deck.  "Sorry,  padre,"  said  a  V.A.D.  who  blocked  the 
way,  bending  herself  back  to  let  him  pass,  and  smiling. 
"Catch  hold,"  called  out  Donovan,  swinging  a  couple  of 
chairs  at  him.  "No,  sir,  it's  not  my  chair" — to  a  Colonel 
who  was  grabbing  at  one  already  set  out  against  the  rail. 


V      blMON  CALLED  PETER  29 

The  Colonel  collected  it  and  disappeared,  Jenks  appear- 
ing a  moment  later,  red- faced,  through  the  crush.  "You 
blamed  fool,"  he  whispered,  "it's  that  girl's.  I  saw  her  put 
one  here  and  edged  up  on  it,  only  some  fool  got  in  my 
way.     Still  (hopefully),  perhaps  she'll  come  back." 

Between  them  they  got  four  chairs  into  a  line  and  sat 
down,  all,^that  is,  save  Jenks,  who  stood  up,  in  a  bland  and 
genial  way,  as  if  to  survey  the  crowd  impartially.  How  im- 
partially soon  ai)pearcd.  "Damn!"  he  exploded.  "She's 
met  some  other  females,  weird  and  woolly  things,  and  she's 
sitting  down  there.     No,  by  Jove!  she's  looking  this  way." 

He  made  a  half -start  forward,  and  the  Major  kicked  his 
shins.  "Blast !"  he  exploded ;  "why  did  you  do  that,  you 
fool ?" 

"Don't  be  an  infant,  Jenko,  sit  down.  You  can't  start 
a  flirtation  across  the  blooming  deck.  Here,  padre,  can't 
you  keep  him  in  order?" 

Peter  half  raised  himself  from  his  chair  at  this,  and 
glanced  the  way  the  other  was  looking.  Through  the  crush 
he  saw,  clearly  enough  for  a  minute,  a  girl  of  medium  height 
in  a  nurse's  uniform,  sideways  on  to  him.  The  next  second 
she  half-turned,  obviously  smiling  some  remark  to  her 
neighbour,  and  he  caught  sight  of  clear  brown  eyes  and  a 
little  fringe  of  dark  hair  on  the  forehead  of  an  almost  child- 
ish face.  The  eyes  met  his.  And  then  a  sailor  blundered 
across  his  field  of  vision. 

"Topping,  isn't  she?"  demanded  Jenks,  who  had  appar- 
ently been  pulled  down  into  his  chair  in  the  interval. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Graham,  and  added  deliberately: 
"Rather  ordinary,  I  tliought." 

Jenks  stared  at  him.  "Good  Lord,  padre,"  he  said, 
"where  are  your  eyes?" 

Peter  heard  a  little  chuckle  behind,  and  glanced  round  to 
see  Donovan  staring  at  him  with  amusement  written  all 
across  his  face.  "You'll  do,  padre,"  he  said,  taking  a  pipe 
from  his  pocket  and  beginning  to  fill  it.     Peter  smiled  and 


30  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

leant  hack.  Probably  for  the  first  time  in  five  years  he  for- 
got for  a  moment  what  sort  of  a  collar  it  was  around  his 
neck. 

Sitting  there,  he  began  to  enjoy  himself.  The  sea  glit- 
tered in  the  sun  and  the  Lees  stretched  out  opposite  him 
across  the  shining  gulf.  Sea-birds  dipped  and  screamed. 
On  his  left,  Major  Bevan  was  talking  to  a  flying  man,  and 
Peter  glanced  up  with  him  to  see  an  aeroplane  that  came 
humming  high  up  above  the  trees  on  the  clitT  and  flew  out 
to  sea. 

"Damned  fine  type!"  said  the  boy,  whose  tunic,  for  all 
his  youth,  sported  wings.  "Fritz  can't  touch  it  yet.  Of 
course,  he'll  copy  it  soon  enough,  or  go  one  better,  but  just 
at  present  I  think  it's  the  best  out.  Wish  we'd  got  some  in 
our  circus.  We've  nothing  but  .  .  ."  and  he  trailed  ofT  into 
technicalities. 

IV'icr  found  himself  studying  Donovan,  who  lay  back 
beyond  Jenks  turning  the  pages  of  an  illustrated  magazine 
and  smoking.  The  eyes  interested  him ;  they  looked  extra- 
ordinarily clear,  but  as  if  tlicir  owner  kept  hidden  behind 
them  a  vast  number  of  secrets  as  old  as  the  universe.  The 
face  was  lined — goo<l -looking,  he  thought,  but  the  face  of  a 
man  who  was  no  novice  in  the  school  of  life.  Peter  felt  he 
liked  the  Captain  in.stinctively.  He  carried  breeding  stamped 
on  him,  far  more  than,  say,  the  Major  with  the  eyeglass, 
Peter  wondered  if  they  would  meet  again. 

The  siren  sounded,  and  a  bustle  began  as  people  put  on 
tlieir  life-belts.  "All  life-belts  on,  please,"  said  a  young 
officer  continually,  who,  with  a  brassard  on  his  arm,  was 
going  up  and  down  among  the  chairs.  "Who's  that?"  asked 
Peter,  struggling  with  his  belt. 

"Some  poor  bloke  who  has  been  roped  in  for  crossin' 
duty,"  said  Jenks.  "Mind  my  chair,  padre;  Bevan  and 
I  are  going  below  for  a  wet.     Coming,  skipper?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Donovan;  "the  bar's  too  full  at  first  for 
me.     Padre  and  I'll  come  later." 

The   others   stepped   off   across   the   crowded   deck,   and 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  31 

Donovan  pitched  his  magazine  into  Bevan's  chair  to  retain  it. 

"You're  from  South  Africa?"  queried  Peter. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other.  "I  was  in  German  West,  and 
came  over  after  on  my  own.  Joined  up  with  tlie  brigade 
here." 

"What  part  of  Africa?"  asked  Peter. 

"Basutoland,  padre.  Not  a  bad  place  in  a  way — decent 
climate,  topping  scenery,  but  rather  a  stodgy  crowd  in  the 
camps.  One  or  two  decent  people,  but  the  majority  mid- 
V^ictorian,  without  a  blessed  iKjtion  except  the  price  of 
mealies,  who  quarrel  about  nothing  half  the  time,  and  talk 
tuppenny-ha'penny  scandal  the  rest.  Good  Lord !  I  wish 
we  had  some  of  the  perishers  out  here.  But  they  know 
which  side  of  the  bread  the  butter  is.  Bad  time  for  trade, 
they  say,  and  every  other  trader  has  bought  a  car  since  the 
war.  Of  course,  there's  something  to  be  said  for  the  other 
side,  but  what  gets  my  goat  is  their  pettiness.  Fm  for  Brit- 
ish Kast  Africa  after  the  war.  There's  a  chap  written  a 
novel  about  Basutoland  called  'The  Land  of  To-morrow,'  but 
Pd  call  it  'The  Land  of  the  Day  before  Yesterday.'  I  sup- 
pose some  of  them  came  over  with  an  assortment  of  ideas 
one  time,  but  they've  struck  no  new  ones  since.  I  don't 
advise  you  to  settle  in  a  South  African  dorp  if  you  can 
help  it,  padre." 

"Don't  sup[X)se  I  shall,"  said  Peter.  "Pve  just  got  en- 
gaged, and  my  girl's  people  wouldn't  let  her  out  of  England." 

"Engaged,  are  you?  Thank  your  stars  you  aren't  mar- 
ried.    It's  safer  not  to  be  out  here." 

"Why?" 

Donovan  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Oh,  you'll  find  out 
fast  enough,  padre,"  he  said.  "Wonder  what  you'll  make 
of  it.  Rum  place  just  now,  France,  I  can  tell  you.  There's 
the  sweepings  of  half  the  world  over  there,  and  everything's 
turned  upside  down.  Fellows  are  out  for  a  spree,  of  course, 
and  you  can't  be  hard  on  a  chap  down  from  the  line  if  he 
goes  on  the  bust  a  bit.  It's  human  nature,  and  you  must 
allow  for  it ;  don't  you  think  so  ?" 


32  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Human  nature  can  be  controlled,"  said  Peter  primly. 

"Can  it?"  retorted  the  other.  "Even  the  cloth  doesn't  find 
it  too  easy,  apparently." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Peter,  and  then  added: 
"Don't  mind  telling  me;  I  really  want  to  know." 

Donovan  knocked  out  his  pipe,  and  evaded.  "You've  got 
*o  be  broad-minded,  padre,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  am,"  said  Peter.     "But  .  .  ." 

"Come  and  have  a  drink  then,"  interrupted  the  other. 
"Jenko  and  the  Major  are  coming  back." 

"Damned  [)oor  whisky!"  said  the  latter,  catching  tlie  rail 
as  the  boat  heaved  a  bit,  "begging  your  pardon,  padre.  Bet- 
ter tr>'  brandy.  If  the  war  lasts  much  longer  there'll  be  no 
whisky  worth  drinking  this  side.  I'm  off  it  till  we  get  to 
the  club  at  Boulogne." 

Peter  and  Donovan  went  off  together.  It  was  a  new  ex- 
perience for  Peter,  but  he  wouldn't  have  owned  it.  They 
groped  their  way  down  the  saloon  stairs,  and  through  a 
crowd  to  the  little  bar.  "What's  yours?"  demanded  Dono- 
van. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  the  Major's  adnce,"  said  Peter.  "Brandy* 
and-soda  for  me." 

"Soda  finished,  sir,"  said  the  bar  steward. 

"All  right :  two  brandies-and-water,  steward,"  said  Dono- 
van, and  swung  a  revolving  scat  near  round  for  Graham. 
As  he  took  it,  Peter  noticed  the  man  opixjsite.  His  badge 
was  a  Maltese  Cross,  but  he  wore  a  flannel  collar  and  tie. 
Their  eyes  met,  but  the  other  stared  a  bit  stonily.  For  the 
second  time.  Peter  wished  he  hadn't  a  clerical  collar.  The 
next  he  was  taking  the  glass  from  the  South  African. 
"Cheerio,"  said  Donovan. 

"Here's  to  you,"  said  Peter,  and  leaned  back  with  an 
assumption  of  ease. 

He  had  a  strange  sense  of  unreality.  No  fool  and  no 
Puritan,  he  had  naturally,  however,  been  little  in  such  an 
atmosphere  since  ordination.  He  would  have  had  a  drink 
in  Park  Lane  with  the  utmost  ease,  and  he  would  have  ar- 


"      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  33 

giied,  over  it,  that  the  clergy  were  not  nearly  so  out  of  touch 
vvitli  men  as  the  papers  said.  But  down  here,  in  the  steam- 
er's saloon,  surrounded  by  officers,  in  an  atmosphere  of  in- 
dilTcrence  to  him  and  his  office,  he  felt  dilTcrently.  He  was 
aware,  dimly,  that  for  the  past  five  years  situations  in  which 
he  had  been  had  been  dominated  by  him,  and  that  he,  as  a 
clergymarf,  had  been  continually  the  centre  of  concern.  Talk, 
conduct,  and  company  had  been  rearranged  when  he  came 
in,  and  it  had  happened  so  often  that  he  had  ceased  to  be 
aware  of  it.  But  now  lie  was  a  mere  unit,  of  no  particular 
importance  whatever.  No  one  dreamed  of  modifying  him- 
self particularly  because  a  clergyman  was  present.  Peter 
clung  to  th.e  belief  that  it  was  not  altogether  so,  but  he  was 
sufficiently  conscious  of  it.  And  he  was  conscious  of  liking 
it,  of  wanting  to  sink  back  in  it  as  a  man  sinks  back  in  an 
easy -chair.  He  felt  he  ought  not  to  do  so,  and  he  made  a 
kind  of  mental  elTort  to  pull  himself  together. 

Up  on  the  deck  the  world  was  very  fair.  The  French 
coast  was  now  clearly  visible,  and  even  the  houses  of  the 
town,  huddled  together  as  it  seemed,  but  dominated  by  a 
church  on  the  hill.  Behind  them,  a  sister  ship  containing 
Tommies  ploughed  steadily  along,  serene  and  graceful  in 
the  sunlight,  and  above  an  airship  of  silvery  aluminium, 
bearing  the  tricoloured  circle  of  the  Allies,  kept  pace  with 
the  swift  ship  without  an  effort.  Four  destroyers  were 
visible,  their  low,  dark  shapes  ploughing  regularly  along  at 
stated  intervals,  and  someone  said  a  fifth  was  out  of  sight 
behind.  People  were  already  beginning  to  take  off  their 
lifebelts,  and  the  sailors  were  clearing  a  place  for  the  gang- 
way. Peter  found  that  Donovan  had  known  what  he  was 
about,  for  his  party  would  be  close  to  the  gangway  without 
moving.  He  began  to  wonder  uneasily  what  would  be  done 
on  landing,  and  to  hope  that  Donovan  would  be  going  his 
way.  No  one  had  said  a  word  about  it.  He  looked  round 
for  Jenks'  nurse,  but  couldn't  see  her. 

It  was  jolly  entering  the  port.  The  French  houses  and 
fishing-boats  looked  foreign,  although  one  could  hardly  say 


34  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

why.  On  the  quay  was  a  big  notice:  "All  officers  to  report 
at  once  to  the  M.L.O."  F'arthcr  on  was  a  board  bearing 
the  letters  "R.T.O."  ...  But  Peter  hardly  liked  to  ask. 

In  fact,  everything  went  like  clockwork.  He  presently 
found  himself  in  a  ([ueuc,  behind  Donovan,  of  officers  who 
were  passing  a  small  window  like  a  ticket  oltice.  Arriving, 
he  handed  in  pai)ers,  and  was  given  them  back  with  a  brief 
"All  right."  Beyond,  Donovan  had  secured  a  broken-down- 
looking  one-horse  cab.  "You'll  be  coming  to  the  club, 
padre?"  he  asked.  "Chuck  in  your  stuff.  This  chap'll  take 
it  down  anil  I'cvan  with  it.     Let's  walk.     It  isn't  far." 

Jenks  elected  to  go  with  his  friend  the  Major,  and  Dono- 
van and  Peter  set  off  over  the  cobbles.  They  joined  up 
with  anotlier  small  group,  and  for  the  first  time  I'etcr  had 
to  give  his  name  as  he  was  introduced.  He  forgot  the  others 
as  soon  as  he  heard  them,  and  they  forgot  his.  A  big  Dub- 
lin Fusilier  ofhcer  with  a  tiny  moustache,  that  seemed  lu- 
dicrous in  his  great  face,  exchanged  a  few  sentences  with 
him.  They  left  the  (juay  and  crossed  a  wide  si)ace  where 
a  bridge  dcl)ouched  towards  the  railway-station.  Donovan, 
who  was  walking  ahead,  |xissed  on,  but  the  Fusilier  suggested 
to  Peter  that  they  might  as  well  see  the  R.T.O.  at  once  about 
trains.  Entering  the  station  gates,  the  now  familiar  initials 
appearing  on  a  row  of  oflices  before  tiiem  to  the  left,  Peter's 
comjianion  demanded  the  train  to  Albert. 

"Two-thirty  a.m.,  cliange  at  Amiens,  sir,"  said  a  clerk 
in  uniform  within,  and  the  Fusilier  passed  on. 

"What  time  is  the  Rouen  train?"  asked  Peter  in  his  turn, 
and  was  told  9.30  p.m. 

"You're  in  luck,  padre,"  said  the  other.  "It's  bally  rotten 
getting  in  at  two-thirty,  and  probably  the  beastly  thing  won't 
go  till  five.  Still,  it  might  be  worse.  You  can  get  on  board 
at  midnight,  and  with  luck  get  to  sleep.  If  I  were  you,  I'd 
be  down  here  early  for  yours — crowded  always,  it  is.  Of 
course,  you'll  dine  at  the  club?" 

Peter  supposed  he  would. 

The  club  entrance  was  full  up  with  officers,  and  more  and 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  35 

more  kept  ix)uring  in.  Donovan  was  just  leaving  the  counter 
on  the  right  with  some  tickets  in  his  hand  as  they  pushed  in. 
"See  you  later,"  he  called  out.  "I've  got  to  sleep  here,  and 
I  want  to  leave  my  traps." 

Peter  wondered  where,  but  was  too  much  occupied  in  keep- 
ing well  behind  the  Fusilier  to  think  much.  At  a  kind  of 
counter  a  girl  in  a  W.A.A.C.  uniform  was  serving  out 
tickets  of  one  sort  and  another,  and  presently  the  two  of 
them  were  before  her.  For  a  few  francs  one  got  tickets 
for  lunch,  dinner,  bed,  a  bath,  and  whatever  else  one  wanted, 
but  Peter  had  no  I'Vench  money.  The  Fusilier  bought  him 
the  first  two,  however,  and  together  they  forced  their  way 
out  into  the  great  lounge.  "Half  an  hour  before  lunch," 
said  his  new  companion,  and  then,  catching  sight  of  some- 
one:  "IIullo,  Jack,  you  back?  Never  saw  you  on  the 
boat.  Did  you  ,  .  ."  His  voice  trailed  off  as  he  crossed 
the  room. 

Peter  looked  around  a  little  disconsolately.  Then  he  made 
his  way  to  a  huge  lounge-chair  and  threw  himself  into  it. 

All  about  him  was  a  subdued  chatter.  A  big  fire  burned 
in  the  stove,  and  round  it  was  a  wide  semicircle  of  chairs. 
Against  the  wall  were  more,  and  a  small  table  or  two  stood 
about.  Nearly  every  chair  had  its  occupant — all  sorts  and 
conditions  of  officers,  mostly  in  undress,  and  he  noticed  some 
fast  asleep,  witli  muddied  boots.  There  was  a  look  on  their 
faces,  even  in  sleep,  and  Peter  guessed  that  some  at  least 
were  down  from  the  line  on  their  way  to  a  brief  leave. 
More  and  more  came  in  continuously.  Stewards  with  drinks 
passed  quickly  in  and  out  about  them.  The  Fusilier  and 
his  friend  were  just  ordering  something.  Peter  opened  his 
case  and  took  out  a  cigarette,  tapping  it  carefully  before 
lighting  it.  He  began  to  feel  at  home  and  lazy  and  comfort- 
able, as  if  he  had  been  there  before. 

An  orderly  entered  with  envelopes  in  his  hand.  "Lieu- 
tenant Frazer?"  he  called,  and  looked  round  inquiringly. 
There  was  no  reply,  and  he  turned  to  the  next.  "Captain 
Saunders  ?"    Still  no  reply.    "Lieutenant  Morcombe  ?"    Still 


36  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

no  reply.  "Lieutenant  Morcombe,"  he  called  again.  Nobody 
took  any  interest,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel,  pushed  the 
swing-door  open,  and  departed. 

Then  Donovan  came  in,  closely  followed  by  Bcvan.  Peter 
got  up  and  made  towards  them.  "Hullo!"  said  Bevan. 
"Have  an  appetiser,  padre.  Lunch  will  be  on  in  twenty 
minutes.     What's  yours,  skipper?" 

The  three  of  them  moved  on  to  Peter's  chair,  and  Bevan 
dragged  up  another.  Peter  subsided,  and  Donovan  sat  on 
the  edge.  Peter  pulled  out  his  cigarette-case  again,  and  of- 
fered it.  Bevan,  after  one  or  two  inctlcctual  attempts,  got  an 
orderly  at  last. 

"Well,  here's  fun,"  he  said. 

"Cheerio,"  said  Peter.  He  ren.embered  Donovan  had 
said  that  in  the  saloon. 


CHAPTER  TIT 

JENKS  being  attached  to  the  A.S.C.  engaged  in  feeding 
daily  more  than  100,000  men  in  the  Rouen  area,  Peter 
and  he  travelled  together.  By  the  latter's  advice  they 
reached  the  railway-station  soon  after  8.30,  but  even  so  the 
train  seemed  full.  There  were  no  lights  in  the  siding,  and 
none  whatever  on  the  train,  so  that  it  was  only  by  matches 
that  one  could  tell  if  a  compartment  was  full  or  empty, 
except  in  the  case  of  those  from  which  candle-light  and 
much  noise  proclaimed  the  former  indisputably.  At  last, 
however,  somewhere  up  near  the  engine,  they  found  a 
second-class  carriage,  apparently  unoccupied,  with  a  big 
ticket  marked  "Reserved"  upon  it.  Jenks  struck  a  match 
and  regarded  this  critically.  "Well,  padre,"  he  said,  "as 
'  It  doesn't  say  for  whom  it  is  reserved,  I  guess  it  may  as 
well  be  reserved  for  us.  So  here  goes."  He  swung  up  and 
tugged  at  the  door,  which  for  some  time  refused  to  give. 
Then  it  opened  suddenly,  and  Second-Lieutenant  Jenks, 
A.S.C,  subsided  gracefully  and  luridly  on  the  ground  out- 
•  side.  Peter  struck  another  match  and  peered  in.  It  wa^ 
then  observed  that  the  compartment  was  not  empty,  but  that 
a  dark-haired,  lanky  youth,  stretched  completely  along  one 
seat,  was  regarding  them  solemnly. 

"This  carriage  is  reserved,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Jenks  cheerfully,  "for  us,  sir.  May  I  ask 
what  you  are  doing  in  it?" 

The  awakened  one  sighed.  "It's  worked  before,  and  if 
you  chaps  come  in  and  shut  the  door  quickly,  perhaps  it 
will  work  again.  Three's  not  too  bad,  but  I've  seen  six 
in  these  perishing  cars.  Come  in  quickly,  for  the  Lord's 
sake!" 

37 


38  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Peter  looked  round  him  curiously.  Two  of  the  four  win- 
aows  were  broken,  and  the  glory  had  departed  from  the 
upholstery.  There  was  no  light,  and  it  would  appear  that 
a  heavier  body  than  that  designed  for  it  had  travelled  upon 
the  rack.  Jenks  was  swearing  away  to  himself  and  trying 
to  light  a  candle-end.     Peter  laughed. 

"Got  any  cards?"  asked  the  original  owner. 

"Yes,"  said  Jenks.    "Got  any  grub?" 

"Bath-olivers  and  chocolate  and  half  a  water-bottle  of 
whisky,"  replied  the  original  owner.  "And  we  shall  need 
them." 

"Good  enough,"  said  Jenks.  "And  the  padre  here  has 
plenty  of  sandwiches,  for  he  ordered  a  double  lot." 

"Do  you  play  auction,  padre?"  queried  what  turned  out, 
in  the  candle-light,  to  be  a  Canadian. 

Peter  assented ;  he  was  moderately  good,  he  knew. 

This  fairly  roused  the  Canadian.  He  swung  his  legs  off 
the  seat,  and  groped  for  the  door.  "Hang  on  to  this  dug- 
out, you  men,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  get  a  fourth.  I  kidded  some 
fellows  of  ours  with  that  notice  just  now,  but  I  know  them, 
and  I  can  get  a  decent  chap  to  come  in." 

He  was  gone  a  few  minutes  only ;  then  voices  sounded  out- 
side. "Been  looking  for  you,  old  dear,"  said  their  friend. 
"Only  two  sportsmen  here  and  a  nice  little  show  all  to 
ourselves.  Tumble  in,  and  we'll  get  cheerful.  Not  that 
seat,  old  dear.    But  wait  a  jif^y;  let's  sort  things  out  first." 

They  snorted  out  of  the  dreary  tunnel  into  Rouen  in  the 
first  daylight  of  the  next  morning.  Peter  looked  eagerly  at 
the  great  winding  river  and  the  glory  of  the  cathedral  as  it 
towered  up  above  the  mists  that  hung  over  the  houses. 
There  was  a  fresh  taste  of  spring  in  the  air,  and  the  smoke 
curled  clear  and  blue  from  the  slow-moving  barges  on  the 
water.  The  bare  trees  on  the  island  showed  every  twig  and 
thin  branch,  as  if  they  had  been  pencilled  against  the  leaden- 
coloured  flood  beneath.  A  tug  puffed  fussily  upstream,  red 
and  yellow  markings  on  its  grimy  black. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  39 

Jenks  was  asleep  in  the  corner,  but  he  woke  as  they  clat- 
tered across  the  bridge.  "Heigh-ho!"  he  sighed,  stretching. 
"Back  to  the  old  graft  again." 

Yet  once  more  Peter  began  to  collect  his  belongings.  It 
seemed  ages  since  he  had  got  into  the  train  at  Victoria,  and 
he  felt  particularly  grubby  and  unshaven. 

"What's  the  next  move?"  he  asked. 

Jenks  eyed  him.     "Going  to  take  a  taxi?"  he  queried. 

"Where  to?"  said  Peter. 

"Well,  if  you  ask  me,  padre,"  he  replied,  "I  don't  see 
what's  against  a  decent  clean-up  and  breakfast  at  the  club. 
It  doesn't  much  matter  when  I  report,  and  the  club's  handy 
for  your  show.  I  know  the  A.C.G.'s  office,  because  it's  in  the 
same  house  as  the  Base  Cashier,  and  the  club's  just  at  the 
bottom  of  the  street.  But  it's  the  deuce  of  a  way  from  the 
station.     If  we  can  get  a  taxi,  I  vote  we  take  it." 

"Right-o,"  agreed  Peter.    "You  lead  on." 

They  tumbled  out  on  the  platform,  and  produced  the 
necessary  papers  at  the  exit  labelled  "British  Officers  Only." 
'A  red-capped  military  policcinan  wrote  down  particulars  on 
a  paper,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  out  among  the 
crowd  of  peasantry  in  the  booking-hall.  Jenks  pushed 
through,  and  had  secured  a  cab  by  the  time  Peter  arrived. 
"There  isn't  a  taxi  to  be  got,  padre,"  he  said,  "but  this'll  do." 

They  rolled  off  down  an  avenue  of  wintry  trees,  passed  a 
wooden  building  which  Peter  was  informed  was  the  Eng- 
lish military  church,  and  out  on  to  the  stone-paved  quay.  To 
Peter  the  drive  was  an  intense  delight.  A  French  blue- 
coated  regiment  swung  past  them.  "Going  up  the  line," 
said  Jenks.  A  crowd  of  black  troops  marched  by  in  the 
opposite  direction.  "Good  Lord !"  said  Jenks,  "so  the  S.A, 
native  labour  has  come."  The  river  was  full  of  craft,  but 
his  mentor  explained  that  the  true  docks  stretched  mile  on 
mile  downstream.  By  a  wide  bridge  lay  a  camouflaged 
steamer.  "Hospital  ship,"  said  Jenks.  Up  a  narrow  street 
could  be  seen  the  buttresses  of  the  cathedral ;  and  if  Peter 
craned  his  head  to  glance  up,  his  companion  was  more  occu- 


40  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

pied  in  tlie  great  cafe  at  the  corner  a  little  farther  on.  But 
it  was,  of  course,  deserted  at  that  early  hour.  A  flower-stall 
at  the  corner  was  gay  witli  flowers,  and  two  French  peasant 
women  were  arranging  the  blooms.  And  then  the  fiacre 
swung  into  the  Rue  Joanne  d'Arc,  and  opposite  a  gloomy- 
looking  entrance  pulled  up  with  a  jerk.  "Here  we  are," 
said  Jenks.    "It's  up  an  infernal  flight  of  steps." 

The  officers'  club  in  Rouen  was  not  monstrously  attrac- 
tive, but  they  got  a  good  wash  in  a  little  room  that  looked 
out  over  a  tangle  of  picturesque  roofs,  and  finally  some 
excellent  coffee  and  bacon  and  eggs. 

Jenks  lit  a  cigarette  and  handed  one  to  Peter.  "Better 
leave  your  traps,"  he  said.  "I'll  go  up  with  you  ;  I've  nothing 
to  do." 

Outside  the  street  was  filling  with  the  morning  traffic,  and 
the  two  walked  up  the  slight  hill  to  the  accompaniment  of  a 
running  fire  of  comments  and  explanations  from  Jenks> 
"That's  Cox's — useful  place  for  the  first  half  of  a  month,  but 
not  much  use  to  me,  anyway,  for  the  second.  .  .  .  You 
ought  to  go  to  that  shop  and  buy  picture  post-cards,  padre; 
there's  a  topping  girl  who  sells  'em.  .  .  .  Rue  de  la  Grosse 
Horloge — you  can  see  the  clock  hanging  over  the  road.  The 
street  runs  up  to  the  cathedral :  rather  jolly  sometimes,  but 
nothing  doing  now.  .  .  .  What's  that?  I  don't  know.  Yes, 
I  do;  Palais  de  Justice  or  something  of  that  sort.  Pretty 
old,  I  believe.  ...  In  those  gardens  is  the  picture  gallery; 
not  been  in  myself,  but  I  believe  tliey've  got  some  good  stuff. 
.  .  .  That's  your  show,  over  there.  Don't  be  long;  I'll 
hang  about." 

Peter  crossed  the  street,  and,  following  directions  as- 
cended some  wooden  stairs.  A  door  round  the  corner  at  the 
top  was  inscribed  "A.C.G.  (C.  of  E.),"  and  he  went  up  to 
it.  There  he  cogitated :  ought  one  to  knock,  or,  being  in 
uniform,  walk  straij:jht  in?  He  could  not  think  of  any  rea- 
son why  one  should  not  knock  being  in  uniform,  so  he 
knocked. 

"Come  in,"  said  a  voice. 


^    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  41 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered.  At  a  desk  before  him 
sat  a  rather  elderly  man,  clean-shaven,  who  eyed  him  keenly. 
On  his  left,  with  his  back  to  him,  was  a  man  in  uniform 
pattering  away  busily  on  a  typewriter,  and,  for  the  rest,  the 
room  contained  a  few  chairs,  a  coloured  print  of  the  Light 
of  the  World  over  the  fireplace,  and  a  torn  map.  Peter  again 
hesitated.  -He  wondered  what  was  the  rank  of  the  officer  in 
the  chair,  and  if  he  ought  to  salute.  While  he  hesitated,  the 
other  said:     "Good-morning.     What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Peter,  horribly  nervous,  made  a  half -effort  at  saluting,  and 
stepped  forward.  "My  name's  Graham,  sir,"  he  said.  "I've 
just  come  over,  and  was  told  in  the  C.G.'s  office  in  London 
to  report  to  Colonel  Chichester,  A.C.G.,  at  Rouen." 

The  other  put  him  at  his  ease  at  once.  Pie  rose  and  held 
a  hand  out  over  the  littered  desk.  "How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Graham?"  he  said.  "We  were  expecting  you.  I  am  the 
A.C.G.  here,  and  we've  plenty  for  you  to  do.  Take  a  seat, 
won't  you  ?  I  believe  I  once  heard  you  preach  at  my  brother's 
place  down  in  Suffolk.  You  were  at  St.  Thomas's,  weren't 
you,  down  by  the  river?" 

Peter  warmed  to  the  welcome.  It  was  strangely  familiar, 
after  the  past  twenty-four  hours,  to  hear  himself  called 
"Mr.,"  and,  despite  the  uniforms  and  the  surroundings,  he 
felt  he  might  be  in  the  presence  of  a  vicar  in  England.  Some 
of  his  old  confidence  began  to  return.  He  replied  freely 
to  the  questions. 

Presently  the  other  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Well,"  he 
said,  "I've  got  to  go  over  to  H.Q.,  and  you  had  better  be 
getting  to  your  quarters.  Where  did  I  place  Captain  Graham, 
Martin?" 

The  orderly  at  the  desk  leaned  sideways  and  glanced  at 
a  paper  pinned  on  the  desk.    "No.  5  Rest  Camp,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  remember  now.  You  can  get  a  tram  at  the 
bottom  of  the  street  that  will  take  you  nearly  all  the  way. 
It's  a  pretty  place,  on  the  edge  of  the  country.  You'll  find 
about  one  thousand  men  in  camp,  and  the  O.C.'s  name  is — 
what  is  it,   Martin?" 


42  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Captain   Harold,  sir." 

"Harold,  that's  it.  A  decent  c\iap.  The  men  are  con- 
Btantly  coming  and  going,  but  there's  a  good  deal  to  do." 

"Is  there  a  chapel  in  the  camp?"  asked  Peter, 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  think  so.  You'll  use  the  canteen.  There's 
a  quiet  room  there  you  can  borrow  for  celebrations.  There's 
a  P.O.W.  camp  next  door  one  way  and  a  South  African  Na- 
tive Labour  Corps  lot  the  other.  But  they  have  their  own 
chaplains.  We'll  let  you  down  easy  at  first,  but  you  might 
see  if  you  can  fix  up  a  service  or  so  for  the  men  in  the  forest. 
There's  a  Labour  Company  out  there  cutting  wood.  Maybe 
you'll  be  able  to  get  a  lift  out  in  a  car,  but  get  your  O.C.  to 
indent  for  a  bicycle  if  there  isn't  one.  Drop  in  and  see  me 
some  day  and  tell  me  how  you  are  getting  on.  I'll  find  you 
some  more  work  later  on." 

Peter  got  up.  The  other  held  out  his  hand,  which  Peter 
took,  and  then,  remembering  O.T.C.  days  at  Oxford,  firmly 
and  unblushingly  saluted.  The  Colonel  made  a  little  mo- 
tion. "Good-bye,"  he  said,  and  Peter  found  himself  outside 
the  door. 

"No.  5  Rest  Camp,"  said  Jenks  a  moment  later:  "you're 
in  luck,  padre.  It's  a  topping  camp,  and  the  skipper  is  an 
awfully  good  sort.  Beast  of  a  long  way  out,  though.  You'll 
have  to  have  a  taxi  now." 

"The  A.C.G.  said  a  tram  would  do,"  said  Peter. 

"Then  he  talked  through  his  blooming  hat,"  replied  the 
other.  "He's  probably  never  been  there  in  his  little  life. 
It's  two  miles  beyond  the  tram  terminus  if  it's  a  yard.  My 
place  is  just  across  the  river,  and  there's  a  ferry  that  pretty 
well  drops  you  there.  Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  see  you 
down  and  then  skip  over." 

"What  about  your  stuff,  though?"  queried  Peter. 

"Oh,  bless  you,  I  can  get  a  lorry  to  collect  that.  That's 
one  use  in  being  A.S.C.,  at  any  rate." 

"It's  jolly  decent  of  you,"  said   Peter. 

"Not  a  bit,  old  dear,"  returned  the  other.     "You're  the 


.-       SIMON  CALLED  PETER  43 

right  sort,  padre,  and  I'm  at  a  loose  end  just  now.  Besides, 
I'd  like  to  see  old  Harold,    He's  one  of  the  best.    Come  on." 

They  found  a  taxi  this  time,  near  the  Care  du  Vert,  and 
ran  quickly  out,  first  over  cobbles,  then  down  a  wide  avenue 
with  a  macadamised  surface  which  paralleled  the  river, 
downstream. 

"Main  -road  to  Havre,"  volunteered  Jenks.  "I've  been 
through  once  or  twice  with  our  stuff.  It's  a  jolly  pretty 
run,  and  you  can  lunch  in  Candebec  with  a  bit  of  luck, 
which  is  one  of  the  beauty-spots  of  the  Seine,  you  know." 

The  road  gave  on  open  country  in  a  few  miles,  though 
there  were  camps  to  be  seen  between  it  and  the  river,  with 
wharves  and  buildings  at  intervals,  and  ahead  a  biggish  wa- 
terside village.  Just  short  of  that  they  pulled  up.  A  notice- 
board  remarked  "No.  5  Rest  Camp,"  and  Peter  saw  he  had 
arrived. 

The  sun  was  well  up  by  this  time,  and  his  spirits  with  it. 
The  country  smiled  in  the  clear  light.  Behind  the  camp 
fields  ran  up  to  a  thick  wood  through  which  wound  a  road, 
and  the  river  was  just  op[X)site  them.  A  sentry  came  to  at- 
tention as  they  passed  in,  sloped  arms,  and  saluted.  Peter 
stared  at  him.  "You  ought  to  take  the  salute,  padre,"  said 
Jenks ;  "you're  senior  to  me,  you  know." 

They  passed  down  a  regular  street  of  huts,  most  of  which 
had  little  patches  of  garden  before  them  in  which  the  green 
of  some  early  spring  flowers  was  already  showing,  and 
stopped  before  the  orderly-roum.  Jenks  said  he  would  look 
in  and  see  if  "the  skipper"  were  inside,  and  in  a  second  or 
two  came  out  with  a  red-faced,  cheerful-looking  man,  whom 
he  introduced  as  Captain  Harold.  With  them  was  a  tall 
young  Scots  officer  in  a  kilt,  whom  Peter  learned  was  Lieu- 
tenant Mackay  of  their  mess. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  padre,"  said  Harold.  "Our  last  man 
wasn't  up  to  much,  and  Jenks  says  you're  a  sport.  I've 
finished  in  there,  so  come  on  to  the  mess  and  let's  have  a 
spot  for  luck.  Come  on,  Scottie.  Eleven  o'clock's  all  right 
for  you,  isn't  it?" 


44  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Shan't  say  no,"  said  the  gentleman  addressed,  and  they 
passed  behind  the  orderly-room  and  in  at  an  open  door. 

Peter  glanced  curiously  round.  The  place  was  very  cheer- 
ful— a  fire  burning  and  gay  pictures  on  the  wall.  "Rather 
neat,  isn't  it,  padre?"  queried  Harold.  "By  the  way,  you've 
got  to  dub  up  a  picture.  Everyone  in  the  mess  gives  one. 
There's  a  blank  space  over  there  that'll  do  nicely  for  a 
Kirschner,  if  you're  six)rt  enough  for  that.  Jcnko'll  show 
you  where  to  get  a  topper.    What's  yours,  old  son  ?" 

"Same  as  usual,  skipi>er,"  said  Jenks,  throwing  himself 
into  a  chair. 

Harold  walked  across  to  a  little  shuttered  window  and 
tapped.  A  man's  face  appeared  in  the  opening.  "Four 
whiskies.  Hunter — that's  ail  right,  padre?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  and  walked  to  the  fire,  while  the  talk 
became  general. 

"First    time   over?"   queried    Mackay. 

"Well,  how's  town?"  asked  Harold.  "Good  shows  on? 
I  ought  to  be  due  next  month,  but  I  think  Pll  wait  a  bit. 
Want  to  get  over  in  the  spring  and  see  a  bit  of  the  country 
too.    What  do  they  think  of  the  war  over  there,  Jenko?" 

"It's  going  to  be  over  by  summer.  There's  a  big  push 
coming  off  this  spring,  and  Fritz  can't  stand  much  more. 
He's  starving,  and  has  no  reserves  worth  talking  of.  The 
East  does  not  matter,  though  the  doings  at  Salonika  have 
depressed  them  no  end.  This  show's  going  to  be  won  on 
the  West,  and  that  quickly.     Got  it,  old  bean?" 

"Good  old  Blighty!"  ejaculated  Harold.  "But  they  don't 
really  believe  all  that,  do  they,  padre?" 

"They  do,"  said  Peter.  "And,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
wondered  if  I'd  be  over  in  time  myself.  Surely  the  Yanks 
must  come  in  and  make  a  difference." 

"This  time  next  year,  perhaps,  though  I  doubt  it.  What 
do  you  tliink,  Scottie?" 

"Oh,  ask  another !  I'm  sick  of  it.  Say,  skipper,  what 
about  that  run  out  into  the  forest  you  talked  of?" 

"Good  enough.     Would  you  care  to  go,  padre?    There's 


•^      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  45 

a  wood-cuttin'  crowd  out  there,  and  I  want  to  see  'em  about 
firewood.  There's  a  car  possible  to-day,  and  we  could  all 
pack  in." 

"Count  me  out,"  said  Jenks.  "I'll  liave  to  toddle  over  and 
report.    Sorry,  all  the  same." 

"I'd  love  it,"  said  Peter.  "Besides,  the  A.C.G.  said  I  was 
to  look  ufT  those  people." 

"Oh,  well  done.  It  isn't  a  joy-ride  at  all,  then.  Have 
another,  padre,  and  let's  get  off.  No?  Well,  I  will.  How's 
yours,  Scottie?" 

Ten  minutes  later  the  three  of  them  got  into  a  big  car  and 
glided  smoothly  ofT,  first  along  the  river,  and  then  up  a 
steep  road  into  the  forest.  Peter,  fresh  from  London,  lay 
back  and  enjoyed  it  immensely.  He  had  no  idea  Normandy 
boasted  such  woods,  and  the  world  looked  very  good  to  him. 
It  was  all  about  as  different  from  what  he  had  imagined 
as  it  could  possibly  have  been.  He  just  set  himself  to 
appreciate  it. 

The  forest  was  largely  fir  and  pine,  and  the  sunlight 
glanced  down  the  straight  trunks  and  patterned  on  the  car- 
pet beneath.  Hollies  gleamed  green  against  the  brown  back- 
ground, and  in  an  open  space  of  bare  beech  trees  the  littered 
ground  was  already  pricked  with  the  new  green  of  the  wild 
hyacinth.  Now  and  again  the  rounded  hills  gave  glimpses 
of  the  far  Normandy  plain  across  the  serpentine  river,  then 
would  as  suddenly  close  in  on  them  again  until  the  car 
seemed  to  dart  between  the  advancing  battalions  of  the 
forest  as  though  to  escape  capture.  At  length,  in  one  such 
place,  they  leaped  forward  up  a  short  rise,  tlien  rushed  swift- 
ly downhill,  swung  round  a  corner,  and  came  out  on  what 
had  become  all  but  a  bare  tableland,  set  high  so  that  one 
could  see  distant  valleys — Boscherville,  Duclair — and  yet 
bare,  for  the  timber  had  been  all  but  entirely  cut  down. 

Five  hundred  yards  along  this  road  brought  them  to  a 
small  encampment.  There  were  some  lines  of  Nysson  huts, 
a  canteen  with  an  inverted  triangle  for  sign,  some  tents, 
great  stacks  of  timber  and  of  smaller  wood,  a  few  lorries 


46  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

drawn  up  and  silent,  and,  beyond,  two  or  three  buildings  of 
wood  set  down  by  tiiemselves,  with  a  garden  in  front,  and 
a  notice  "Officers'  Quarters."  Here,  then.  Captain  Harold 
stopped  the  car,  and  they  got  out.  There  were  some  jovial 
introductions,  and  presently  the  whole  party  set  off  across 
the  cleared  space  to  where,  in  the  distance,  one  could  see 
the  edge  of  the  forest. 

Peter  did  not  want  to  talk,  and  dropped  a  little  behind. 
Harold  and  the  O.C.  of  tlie  forestry  were  on  in  front,  and 
Mackay,  with  a  junior  local  officer,  were  skirmishing  about 
on  the  right,  taking  pot-shots  with  small  chunks  of  wood 
at  the  stumps  of  trees  and  behaving  rather  like  two  school- 
boys. 

The  air  was  all  heavy  with  resinous  scent,  and  the  carj^et 
beneath  soft  with  moss  and  leaves  and  fragrant  chips  of 
pine.  Here  and  there,  on  a  definite  plan,  a  small  tree  had 
been  spared,  and  when  he  joined  the  men  ahead,  Peter 
learned  how  careful  were  the  French  in  all  this  apparently 
wholesale  felling.  In  the  forest,  as  they  saw  as  they 
reached  it,  the  lines  were  numbered  and  lettered,  and  in 
some  distant  office  every  woodland  group  was  known,  with 
its  place  and  age.  There  are  few  foresters  like  the  French, 
and  it  was  cheering  to  think  that  this  great  levelling  would, 
in  a  score  of  years,  do  more  good  than  harm. 

Slowly  biting  into  the  untouched  regiments  of  trees  were 
the  men,  helped  in  tlieir  work  by  a  small  power  engine.  The 
great  trunks  were  lopped  and  roughly  squared  here,  and 
then  dragged  by  motor  traction  to  a  slide,  which  they  now 
went  to  view.  It  was  a  fascinating  sight.  The  forest  ended 
abruptly  on  a  high  hill,  and  below,  at  their  feet,  wound  the 
river.  Far  down,  working  on  a  wharf  that  had  been  con- 
structed of  piles  driven  into  the  mud,  was  a  Belgian  detach- 
ment with  German  prisoners,  and  near  the  wharf  rough 
sheds  housed  the  cutting  plant.  Where  they  stood  was  the 
head  of  a  big  sHde,  with  back-up  sides,  and  the  forest  giants, 
brought  to  the  top  from  the  place  where  they  were  felled. 


:      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  47 

were  levered  over,  to  swish  down  in  a  cloud  of  dust  to  the 
>aiting  men  beneath. 

"Well,  skipper,  what  about  the  firewood?"  asked  Harold 
as  they  stood  gazing-. 

"How  much  do  you  want?"  asked  the  O.C,  Forestry. 

"Oh,  well,  what  can  you  let  me  have?  You've  got  stacks 
of  odd  stulT  about ;  surely  you  can  spare  a  bit." 

"It's  clean  agin  regulations,  but  could  you  send  for  it?" 

"Rather !  There's  an  A.S.C.  camp  below  us,  and  the  men 
there  promised  me  a  lorry  if  I'd  share  the  spoils  with  them. 
Will  that  do?" 

"All  right.     When  will  you  send  up?" 

"What's  to-day?  Wednesday?  How  about  Sunday?  I 
could  put  some  boys  on  to  load  up  who'd  like  the  jaunt. 
How  would  Sunday  do?" 

"Capital.  My  chaps  work  on  all  day,  of  course,  and  I 
don't  want  to  give  them  extra,  so  send  some  of  yours." 

Peter  listened,  and  now  cut  in. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  I  was  told  I  ought  to  try 
and  get  a  service  of  some  sort  out  here.  Could  I  come  out 
on  the  lorry  and  hold  one?" 

"Delighted,  padre,  of  course.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for 
you.  About  eleven?  Probably  you  won't  get  many  men, 
as  there  are  usually  inspection  parades  and  some  extra  fa- 
tigues on  Sunday,  but  I'll  put  it  in  orders.  We  haven't  had 
a  padre  for  a  long  time." 

"Eleven  would  suit  me,"  said  Peter,  "if  Captain  Harold 
thinks  the  lorry  can  get  up  here  by  that  time.    Will  it,  sir  ?" 

"Oh,  I  should  think  so,  and,  anyway,  an  hour  or  so  won't 
make  much  difference.  If  I  can,  I'll  come  with  you  myself. 
But,  I  say,  we  ought  to  be  getting  back  now.  It  will  be 
infernally  late  for  luncheon." 

"Come  and  have  a  drink  before  you  start,  anyway,"  said 
the  O.C. ;  and  he  led  the  way  back  to  the  camp  and  into  an 
enclosure  made  of  bushes  and  logs  in  the  rear  of  the  mess, 
where  rustic  seats  and  a  table  had  been  constructed  under 


48  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

the  shade  of  a  giant  oak.  "It's  rattling  here  in  summer,"  he 
said,  "and  we  have  most  of  our  meals  out  of  doors.  Sit 
down,  won't  you?    Orderly!" 

"By  Jove!  you  people  are  comfortable  out  here,"  said 
Harold.     "Wish  I  had  a  job  of  this  sort." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  skipper;  it  would  feed  you  up  after 
a  while,  I  think.  It's  bally  lonely  in  the  evening,  and  we 
can't  always  get  a  car  to  town.  It's  a  damned  nuisance  get- 
ting out  again,  too."  Then,  as  the  orderly  brought  glasses 
and  a  bottle :  "Have  a  spot.  It's  Haig  and  Haig,  Mackay, 
and  the  right  stuff." 

"Jolly  good,  sir,"  said  that  worthy  critically.  "People 
think  because  I  don't  talk  broad  Scots  I'm  no  Highlander, 
but  when  it  comes  to  the  whisky  I've  got  a  Scottish  thirst. 
Say  when,  sir." 

Peter  had  another  because  he  was  warm  with  the  sense 
of  good  comradeship,  and  was  warmer  still  when  he  climbed 
into  the  car  ten  minutes  later.  Life  seemed  so  simple  and 
easy,  and  he  was  struck  with  the  cheeriness  of  his  new 
friends,  and  the  ready  welcome  to  himself  and  his  duty.  He 
waved  to  the  O.C.  "See  you  Sunday,  sir,"  he  called  out, 
"  'bout  eleven.  You  won't  forget  to  put  it  in  orders,  will 
you?    Cheerio." 

"Let's  go  round  by  the  lower  road,  skipper,"  said  Mackay. 
"We  can  look  in  at  that  toppin'  little  pub — what's  its  name, 
Croix  something? — and  besides,  the  surface  is  capital  down 
there." 

"And  see  Marie,  eh  ?  But  don't  forget  you've  got  a  padre 
aboard." 

"Oh,  he's  all  right,  and  if  he's  going  to  be  out  here,  it's 
time  he  knew  Marie." 

Graham  laughed.  "Carry  on,"  he  said,  "It's  all  one 
to  me  where  we  go,  skipper." 

He  lay  back  more  comfortably  than  ever,  and  the  big  car 
leaped  forward  through  the  forest,  ever  descending  towards 
the  river  level.  Soon  the  trees  thinned,  and  they  were  skirt- 
ing ploughed  fields.    Presently  they  ran  through  a  litde  vil- 


*      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  49 

lage,  where  a  German  prisoner  straightened  himself  from  his 
work  in  a  garden  and  saluted.  Then  through  a  wood  which 
suddenly  gave  a  vista  of  an  avenue  to  a  stately  house,  tur- 
reted  in  the  French  style,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away;  then 
over  a  little  stream ;  then  round  a  couple  of  corners,  past  a 
dreamy  old  church,  and  a  long  immemorial  wall,  and  so  out 
into  the  straight  road  along  the  river.  The  sun  gleamed 
on  the  water,  and  there  were  ships  in  view,  a  British  and 
a  couple  of  Norwegian  tramps,  ploughing  slowly  down  to 
the  sea.  On  the  far  bank  the  level  of  the  land  was  low,  but 
on  this  side  only  some  narrow  apple-orchards  and  here  and 
there  lush  water-meadows  separated  them  from  the  hills. 

The  Croix  de  Guerre  stood  back  from  the  road  in  a  long 
garden  just  where  a  forest  bridle-path  wound  down  through 
a  tiny  village  to  the  main  road.  Their  chauffeur  backed  the 
car  all  but  out  of  sight  into  this  path  after  they  climbed  out, 
and  the  three  of  them  made  for  a  sidedoor  in  a  high  wall. 
Harold  opened  it  and  walked  in.  The  pretty  trim  little  gar- 
den had  a  few  flowers  in  bloom,  so  sheltered  was  it,  and 
Mackay  picked  a  red  rosebud  as  they  walked  up  the  path. 

Harold  led  the  way  without  ceremony  into  a  parlour  that 
opened  off  a  verandah,  and,  finding  it  empty,  opened  a  door 
beyond.     "Marie!  Marie!"  he  called. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine,  I  come,"  came  a  girl's  voice, 
and  Marie  entered.  Peter  noticed  how  rapidly  she  took 
them  all  in,  and  how  cold  were  the  eyes  that  nevertheless 
sparkled  and  greeted  Harold  and  Mackay  with  seeming 
gaiety.  She  was  short  and  dark  and  not  particularly  good- 
looking,  but  she  had  all  the  vivacity  and  charm  of  the  French. 

"Oh,  monsieur,  where  have  you  been  for  so  long?  I 
thought  you  had  forgotten  La  Croix  de  Guerre  altogether. 
It's  the  two  weeks — no,  three — since  you  come  here.  The 
gentlemen  will  have  dejeuner?  And  perhaps  a  little  aperitif 
before?" 

"Bon  jour,  Marie,"  began  the  Captain  in  clumsy  French, 
and  then  abandoned  the  attempt.  "I  could  not  come,  Marie, 
you  know.    C'est  la  guerre.    Much  work  each  day." 


50  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Ah,  non,  monsieur  cannot  cheat  me.  He  had  found  an« 
other  cafe  and  another  girl.  .  .  .  Non,  non,  monsieur,  it  is 
not  correct;"  and  the  girl  drew  herself  up  with  a  curiously 
changed  air  as  Harold  clumsily  reached  out  towards  her, 
protesting.  "And  you  have  a  cure  here — how  do  you  say,  a 
chapelain?"  and  Marie  beamed  on  Peter. 

The  two  officers  looked  at  him  and  laughed.  "What  can 
I  bring  you,  Monsieur  le  Capitaine  le  Cure?"  demanded  the 
girl.    "Vermuth?    Cognac?" 

Mackay  slipped  from  the  edge  of  the  table  on  which  he 
had  been  sitting  and  advanced  towards  her,  speaking  fluent 
French,  with  a  curious  suggestion  of  a  Scotch  accent  that 
never  appeared  in  his  English.  Peter  watched  with  a  smile 
on  his  face  and  a  curious  medley  of  feelings,  while  the 
Lieutenant  explained  that  they  could  not  stop  to  lunch,  that 
they  would  take  three  mixed  vermuth,  and  that  he  would 
come  and  help  her  get  them.  They  went  out  together,  Marie 
protesting,  and  Harold,  lighting  a  cigarette  and  offering  one 
to  Peter,  said  with  a  laugh :  "He's  the  boy,  is  Mackay.  Wish 
I  could  sling  the  lingo  like  him.    It's  a  great  country,  padre." 

In  a  minute  or  two  the  pair  of  them  came  back.  Marie 
was  wearing  the  rose  at  the  point  of  the  little  decollete  of 
her  black  dress,  and  was  all  over  smiles.  She  carried  a  tray 
with  glasses  and  a  bottle.  Mackay  carried  the  other.  With 
a  great  show,  he  helped  her  pour  out,  and  chatted  away  in 
French  while  they  drank. 

Harold  and  Peter  talked  together,  but  the  latter  caught 
scraps  of  the  others'  conversation.  Mackay  wanted  to  know, 
apparently,  when  she  would  be  next  in  town,  and  was  urging 
a  date  on  her.  Peter  caught  "Rue  Jeanne  d'Arc,"  but  little 
more,  and  Harold  was  insistent  on  a  move  in  a  few  minutes. 
They  skirmished  at  the  door  saying  "Good-bye,"  but  it  was 
with  an  increased  feeling  of  the  warmth  and  jollity  of  his 
new  life  that  Peter  once  more  boarded  the  car.  This  time 
Mackay  got  in  front  and  Harold  joined  Graham  behind.  As 
they  sped  off,  Peter  said : 

"By  Jove,  skipper,  you  do  have  a  good  time  out  here!" 


'     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  51 

Harold  flicked  off  the  ash  of  his  cigarette.  "So,  so,  padre," 
he  said.  "But  the  devil's  loose.  It's  all  so  easy ;  I've  never 
met  a  girl  yet  who  was  not  out  for  a  spree.  Of  course, 
we  don't  see  anytliing  of  the  real  French  ladies,  though,  and 
this  isn't  the  line.  By  God !  when  I  think  of  the  boys  up 
there,  I  feel  a  beast  sometimes.  But  I  can't  help  it ;  they 
won't  pass 'me  to  go  up,  and  it's  no  use  growling  down  here 
because  of  it." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Peter,  and  leaned  back  reflecting  for 
the  rest  of  the  way.  Pie  felt  as  if  he  had  known  these  men 
all  his  days,  and  as  if  his  London  life  had  been  lived  on 
another  planet. 

After  lunch  he  was  given  a  cubicle,  and  spent  an  hour  or 
two  getting  unpacked.  That  dune,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
sit  down  to  a  letter,  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
Mackay  looked  in. 

"You  there,  padre?"  he  asked.  "There's  a  lorry  going 
up  to  town  that  has  just  brought  a  batch  of  men  in:  would 
you  care  to  come?  I've  got  to  do  some  shopping,  and  we 
could  dine  at  the  club  and  come  back  afterwards." 

Peter  jumped  up.  "Topping,"  he  said.  "I  want  to  get 
one  or  two  things,  and  I'd  love  it." 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  the  other.  "I'll  meet  you  at  the 
gate  in  five  minutes." 

Peter  got  on  his  Sam  Browne  and  went  out,  and  after  a 
bit  Mackay  joined  him.  They  jolted  up  to  town,  and  went 
first  to  the  Officers'  Store  at  the  E.F.C.  Mackay  bought 
some  cigarettes,  and  Peter  some  flannel  collars  and  a  tie. 
Together  the  pair  of  them  strolled  round  town,  and  put 
their  heads  in  at  the  cathedral  at  Peter's  request.  He  had 
a  vision  of  old  grey  stone  and  coloured  glass  and  wide  soar- 
ing spaces,  but  his  impatient  companion  hauled  him  out.  "Of 
course,  you'll  want  to  see  round,  padre,"  he  said,  "but  you 
can  do  it  some  other  time  and  with  somebody  else.  I've  seen 
it  once,  and  that's  enough  for  me.  Let's  get  on  to  the  club 
and  book  a  table ;  there's  usually  a  fearful  crowd." 

Peter  was  immensely  impressed  with  the  crowd  of  men, 


52  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

the  easy  greetings  of  acquaintances,  and  the  way  in  which 
one  was  ignored  by  the  rest.  He  was  introduced  to  several 
people,  who  were  all  very  cheerful,  and  in  the  long  dining- 
room  they  eventually  sat  down  to  table  with  two  more  offi- 
cers whom  the  Scotsman  knew.  Peter  was  rather  taken  with 
a  tall  man,  slightly  bald,  of  the  rank  of  Captain,  who  was 
attached  to  a  Labour  Corps.  Pie  had  travelled  a  great  deal, 
and  been  badly  knocked  about  in  Gallipoli.  In  a  way,  he 
was  more  serious  than  the  rest,  and  he  told  Peter  a  good 
deal  about  the  sights  of  the  town — the  old  houses  and 
churches,  and  where  was  the  best  glass,  and  so  on.  Mackay 
and  the  fourth  made  merry,  and  Mackay,  who  called  the 
W.A.A.C.  waitress  by  her  Christian  name,  was  plainly  get- 
ting over-excited.  Peter's  friend  was  obviously  a  little 
scornful.  "You'll  meet  a  lot  of  fools  here,  padre,"  he  said, 
"old  and  young.  The  other  day  I  was  having  tea  here  when 
two  old  bulTers  came  in — dug-outs,  shoved  into  some  job  or 
another — and  they  sat  down  at  the  table  next  mine.  I 
couldn't  help  hearing  what  they  said.  The  older  and  fatter, 
a  Colonel,  looked  out  of  window,  and  remarked  ponderously: 

"  'By  the  way,  wasn't  Joan  of  Arc  born  about  here?' 

"  *No,'  said  the  second ;  'down  in  Alsace-Lorraine,  I  be^ 
lieve.  She  was  burnt  here,  and  they  threw  her  ashes  into 
the  Grand  Pont.'  " 

Peter  laughed  silently,  and  the  other  smiled  at  him. 
*'Fact,"  he  said.  "That's  one  type  of  ass,  and  the  second 
is  (dropping  his  voice)  your  friend  here  and  his  like,  if 
you  don't  mind  my  saying  so.  Look  at  him  with  that  girl 
now.  Somebody '11  spot  it,  and  they'll  keep  an  eye  on  him. 
Next  time  he  meets  her  on  the  sly  he'll  be  caught  out,  and 
be  up  for  it.  Damned  silly  fool,  I  think!  The  bally  girl's 
only  a  waitress  from  Lyons." 

Peter  glanced  at  Mackay.  He  was  leaning  back  holding 
the  menu,  which  she,  with  covert  glances  at  the  cashier's 
desk,  was  trying  to  take  away  from  him.  "Isobel,"  he  said, 
"I  say,  come  here — no,  I  really  want  to  see  it — tell  me. 
when  do  you  get  out  next?" 


*  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  53 

"We  don't  get  no  leave  worth  talking  of,  you  know/* 
she  said.  "Besides,  you  don't  mean  it.  You  can't  talk  to 
me  outside.  Oh,  shut  up!  I  must  go.  They'll  see  us," 
and  she  darted  away. 

"Damned  pretty  girl,  eh?"  said  Mackay  contentedly. 
"Don't  mind  me,  padre.  It's  only  a  bit  of  a  joke.  Come  on, 
let's  clear  oMt." 

The  four  went  down  the  stairs  together  and  stood  in  a 
little  group  at  the  entrance-door.  "Where  you  for  now, 
Mac?"  asked  tlie  second  officer,  a  subaltern  of  the  West 
Hampshires. 

"Don't  know,  old  sport.  I'm  with  the  padre.  What  you 
for,  padre?" 

"I  should  think  we  had  better  be  getting  back,"  said  Peter, 
glancing  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist.    "We've  a  long  way  to 

"Oh,  hang  it  all,  not  yet!  Its  a  topping  evenin'.  Let's 
stroll  up  the  street." 

Peter  glanced  at  the  Labour  Corps  Captain,  who  nodded, 
and  they  two  turned  off  together.  "There's  not  much  to  do," 
he  said.  "One  gets  sick  of  cinemas,  and  the  music-hall  is 
worse,  except  when  one  is  really  warmed  up  for  a  razzle- 
dazzle.  I  don't  wonder  these  chaps  go  after  wine  and  women 
more  than  they  ought.  After  all,  most  of  them  are  just  loose 
from  home.  You  must  make  allowances,  padre.  It's  human 
nature,  you  know." 

Peter  nodded  abstractedly.  It  was  the  second  time  he  had 
heard  that.  "It's  all  so  jolly  different  from  what  I  ex- 
pected," he  said  meditatively. 

"I  know,"  said  the  other.  "Not  much  danger  or  poverty 
or  suffering  here,  seemingly.  But  you  never  can  tell.  Look 
at  those  girls :  I  bet  you  would  probably  sum  them  up  alto- 
gether wrongly  if  you  tried." 

Peter  glanced  at  a  couple  of  French  women  who  were 
j>assing.  The  pair  were  looking  at  them,  and  in  the  light 
of  a  brilliantly  lit  cinema  they  showed  up  clearly.  The 
paint  was  laid  on  shamelessly;  their  costumes,  made  in  one 


54  SIAION  CALLED  PETER 

piece,  were  edged  with  fur  and  very  gay.  Each  carried  a 
handbag  and  one  a  tasselled  stick.  "Good-night,  cherie," 
said  one,  as  they  passed. 

Peter  gave  a  Httle  shudder.  "How  ghastly!"  he  said, 
"How  can  anyone  speak  to  them?  Are  there  many  Hke 
that  about  ?"  He  glanced  back  again  :  "Why,  good  heavens," 
he  cried,  "one's  Marie!" 

"Hullo,  padre,"  said  his  friend,  the  ghost  of  a  smile  be- 
ginning about  his  lips.  "Where  have  you  been?  Marie! 
By  Jove !    I  shall  have  to  report  you  to  the  A.C.G." 

Peter  blushed  furiously.  "It  was  at  an  inn,"  he  said,  "this 
morning,  as  we  were  coming  back  from  the  forest.  But 
she  seemed  so  much  better  then.  Mackay  knew  her ;  why,  I 
heard  him  say  .  .  ." 

He  glanced  back  at  the  sudden  recollection.  The  two 
girls  were  speaking  to  the  two  others,  twenty  paces  or  so 
behind.    "Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "look  here!  .  .  ." 

The  tall  Labour  man  slipped  his  arm  in  his  and  interrupted. 
"Come  on,  padre,"  he  said ;  "you  can't  do  anj-thing.  Mac- 
kay's  had  a  bit  too  much  as  it  is,  and  the  other  chap  is 
tooking  for  a  night  out.  W^e'll  stroll  past  the  cathedral,  and 
I'll  see  you  a  bit  of  the  way  home." 

"But  how  damnable,  how  beastly!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "It 
makes  one  sick !  .  .  ."  He  broke  off,  and  the  two  walked 
on  in  silence. 

"Is  there  much  of  that?"  Peter  demanded  suddenly. 

The  other  glanced  at  him.  "You'll  find  out  without  my 
telling  you,"  he  said ;  "but  don't  be  too  vehement  till  you've 
got  your  eyes  open.    There  are  worse  things." 

"There  can't  be,"  broke  in  Peter.  "Women  like  that,  and 
men  who  will  go  with  them,  aren't  fit  to  be  called  men  and 
women.    There's  no  excuse.     It's  bestial,  that's  what  it  is." 

"You  wouldn't  speak  to  one?"  queried  the  other. 

"Good  heavens,  no!     Do  you  forget  what  I  am?" 

"No,  I  don't,  padre,  but  look  here,  I'm  not  a  Christian, 
and  I  take  a  common-sense  view  of  these  things,  but  I'm 
bound  to  say  I  think  you're  on  the  wrong  tack,  too.    Didn't 


V 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  55 


Christ  have  compassion  on  people  like  that?  Didn't  He 
eat  and  drink  with  publicans  and  sinners?" 

"Yes,  to  convert  them.  You  can't  name  the  two  things 
in  the  same  breath.  He  had  compassion  on  the  multitude 
of  hungry  women  and  children  and  misguided  men,  but  He 
hated  sin.  You  can't  deny  that."  Peter  recalled  his  ser- 
mon ;  he  was  rather  indignant,  unreasonably,  that  the  sug^ 
gestion  should  have  been  made. 

"So?"  said  the  other  laconically.  "Well,  you  know  more 
about  it  than  I  do,  I  suppose.    Come  on ;  we  go  down  here." 

They  parted  at  the  corner  by  the  river  again,  and  Peter 
set  out  for  his  long  walk  home  alone.  It  was  a  lovely 
evening  of  stars,  cool,  but  not  too  cold,  and  at  first  the 
streets  were  full  of  people.  He  kept  to  the  curb  or  walked 
in  the  road  till  he  was  out  of  the  town,  taking  salutes  auto- 
matically, his  thoughts  far  away.  The  little  cafes  debits 
were  crowded,  largely  by  Tommies.  He  was  not  accosted 
again,  for  he  walked  fast,  but  he  saw  enough  as  he  went. 

More  than  an  hour  later  he  swung  into  camp,  and  went 
to  his  room,  lit  a  candle,  and  shut  the  door.  Tunic  oflf,  he 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  camp-bed  and  stared  at  the  light.  He 
seemed  to  have  lived  a  year  in  a  day,  and  he  felt  unclean. 
He  thought  of  Hilda,  and  then  actually  smiled,  for  Hilda 
and  this  life  seemed  so  incredibly  far  apart.  He  could  not 
conceive  of  her  even  knowing  of  its  existence.  \et,  he 
supposed,  she  knew,  as  he  had  done,  that  such  things  were. 
He  had  even  preached  about  them.  ...  It  suddenly  struck 
him  that  he  had  talked  rot  in  the  pulpit,  talked  of  things  of 
which  he  knew  nothing.  Yet,  of  course,  his  attitude  had  been 
right. 

He  wondered  if  he  should  speak  to  Mackay,  and,  so  won- 
dering, fell  forward  on  his  knees. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HILDA'S  religion  was,  like  the  religion  of  a  great  many 
Englishwomen  of  her  class,  of  a  very  curious  sort. 
She  never,  of  course,  analysed  it  herself,  and  conceivably 
she  would  object  very  strongly  to  the  description  set  down 
here,  but  in  practical  fact  there  is  no  doubt  about  the  analy- 
sis. To  begin  with,  this  conventional  and  charming  young 
lady  of  Park  I^nc  had  in  common  with  Napoleon  Bona- 
parte that  Christianity  meant  more  to  them  both  as  the  secret 
of  social  order  than  as  the  mystery  of  the  Incarnation.  Hilda 
was  convinced  tliat  a  decent  and  orderly  life  rested  on  cer- 
tain agreements  and  conclusions  in  respect  to  marriage  and 
class  and  conduct,  and  that  these  agreements  and  conclusions 
were  admirably  stated  in  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  and 
most  ably  and  decorously  advocated  from  the  pulpit  of  St. 
John's.  She  would  have  said  that  she  believed  the  agree- 
ments and  conclusions  because  of  the  Prayer  Book,  but  in 
fact  she  had  primarily  given  in  her  allegiance  to  a  social 
system,  and  supported  the  Prayer  Book  because  of  its  sup- 
port of  that.  Once  a  month  she  repeated  the  Nicene  Creed, 
but  only  because,  in  the  nature  of  things,  the  Nicene  Creed 
Was  given  her  once  a  month  to  repeat,  and  she  never  really 
<:onceivcd  that  people  might  worry  strenuously  about  it,  any 
more  than  she  did.  Being  an  intelligent  girl,  she  knew,  of 
course,  that  people  did,  and  occasionally  preachers  occupied 
the  pulpit  of  St.  John's  who  w^ere  apparently  quite  anxious 
that  she  and  the  rest  of  the  congregation  should  understand 
that  it  meant  this  and  not  that,  or  that  and  not  this,  according 
to  the  particular  enthusiasm  of  the  clergyman  of  the  moment. 
Sentence  by  sentence  she  more  or  less  understood  what  these 
gentlemen  keenly  urged  upon  her;  as  a  whole  she  undcr- 

&6 


^    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  5> 

stood  nothing.  She  was  far  too  much  the  child  of  her  en- 
vironment and  age  not  to  perceive  that  Mr.  Lloyd  George's 
experiments  in  class  legislation  were  vastly  more  importaiit. 

Peter,  therefore,  had  always  been  a  bit  of  an  enigma  to 
her.  As  a  rule  he  fitted  in  with  the  scheme  of  things  per- 
fectly well,  for  he  was  a  gentleman,  he  liked  nice  things, 
and  he  was  splendidly  keen  on  charity  organisation  and  the 
reform  of  abuses  on  right  lines.  But  now  and  again  he 
said  and  did  things  which  perturbed  her.  It  was  as  if  she 
had  gradually  become  complete  mistress  of  a  house,  and 
then  had  suddenly  discovered  a  new  room  into  which  she 
peeped  for  a  minute  before  it  was  lost  to  her  again  and  the 
door  shut.  It  was  no  Bluebeard's  chamber  into  which  she 
looked ;  it  was  much  more  that  she  had  a  suspicion  that  tlie 
room  contained  a  live  mistress  who  might  come  out  one  day 
and  dispute  her  own  title.  She  could  tell  how  Peter  would 
act  nine  times  out  of  ten ;  she  knew  by  instinct,  a  great  deal 
better  than  he  did,  the  conceptions  that  ruled  his  life;  but 
now  and  again  he  would  hesitate  perplexedly  as  if  at  the 
thought  of  something  that  she  did  not  understand,  or  act 
suddenly  in  response  to  an  overwhelming  flood  of  impulse 
whose  spring  was  beyond  her  control  or  even  her  surmise. 
Women  mother  all  their  men  because  men  are  on  the  wholt 
such  big  babies,  but  from  a  generation  of  babies  is  born 
occasionally  the  master.  Women  get  so  used  to  the  rule 
that  they  forget  the  exception.  When  he  comes,  then,  they 
are  troubled. 

But  this  was  not  all  Hilda's  religion.  For  some  mysteri^ 
ous  reason  this  product  of  a  highly  civilised  community 
had  the  elemental  in  her.  Men  and  women  both  have  got 
to  eliminate  all  trace  of  sex  before  they  can  altogether  es- 
cape that.  In  other  words,  because  in  her  lay  latent  the 
power  of  birth,  in  which  moment  she  would  be  cloisterea 
alone  in  a  dark  and  silent  room  with  infinity,  she  clung  un- 
reasonably and  all  but  unconsciously  to  certain  superstitions 
which  she  shared  with  primitive  savages  and  fetish-wor- 
shippers.   All  of  which  seems  a  far  cry  from  tlie  War  Inter- 


58  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

cession  Services  at  wealthy  and  fashionable  St.  John's,  but 
it  was  nothing  more  or  less  than  this  which  was  causing 
her  to  kneel  on  a  high  hassock,  elbows  comfortably  on  the 
prayer-rail,  and  her  face  in  her  hands,  on  a  certain  Friday 
evening  in  the  week  after  Peter's  arrival  in  France,  while 
the  senior  curate  (after  suitable  pauses,  during  which  her 
mind  was  uncontrollably  busy  with  an  infmitc  number  of 
things,  ranging  from  the  doings  of  Peter  in  France  to  the 
increasing  difficulty  of  obtaining  silk  stockings),  intoned  the 
excellent  stately  English  of  the  Prayers  set  forth  by  Au- 
thority in  Time  of  War. 

Two  pews  ahead  of  her  knelt  Sir  Robert  Doyle,  in  uni- 
form. That  simple  soldier  was  a  bigger  child  than  most 
men,  and  was,  therefore,  still  conscious  of  a  number  of 
unfathomable  things  about  him,  for  the  which  Hilda,  his 
godchild,  adored  and  loved  him  as  a  mother  will  adore  her 
child  who  sits  in  a  field  of  buttercups  and  sees,  not  minted 
nor  botanical,  but  heavenly  gold.  He  was  all  the  more 
lovable  because  he  conceived  that  he  was  much  bigger  and 
stronger  than  she,  ami  perfectly  capable  of  looking  after  her. 
In  that  he  was  like  a  plucky  boy  who  gets  up  from  his  butter- 
cups to  tell  his  mother  not  to  be  frightened  when  a  cow 
comes  into  the  field. 

They  went  out  together,  and  greeted  each  other  in  the 
porch.  "Gocnl-evcning,  child,"  said  the  soldier,  with  a 
smile.     "And  how's  Peter?" 

Hilda  smiled  back,  but  after  a  rather  wintry  fashion,  which 
the  man  was  quick  to  note.  "I  couldn't  have  told  you  fresh 
news  yesterday,"  she  said,  "but  I  had  a  letter  this  morning 
all  about  his  first  Sunday.  He's  at  Rouen  at  a  rest  camp  for 
the  present,  though  he  thinks  he's  likely  to  be  moved  almost 
at  once ;  and  he's  quite  well." 

"And  then?"  queried  the  other  affectionately. 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  know  at  all,  but  he  says  he  doesn't  think 
there's  any  chance  of  his  getting  up  the  line.  He'll  be  sent 
to  another  part  where  there  is  likely  to  be  a  shortage  of 
chaplains  soon." 


'     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  59 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  isn't  it?  He's  in  no  danger  at 
Rouen,  at  any  rate.  If  we  go  on  as  we're  going  on  now, 
they  won't  even  hear  the  guns  down  there  soon.  Come,  lit- 
tle girl,  what's  worrying  you?    I  can  see  there's  something." 

They  were  in  the  street  now,  walking  towards  the  park, 
and  Hilda  did  not  immediately  reply.  Then  she  said: 
"What  are' you  going  to  do?  Can't  you  come  in  for  a  little? 
Father  and  mother  will  be  out  till  late,  and  you  can  keep 
me  company." 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  "I've  got  to  be  at  the  War  Office 
later,"  he  said,  "hut  my  man  doesn't  reach  town  till  after 
ten,  so  I  will.  The  club's  not  over-altractive  these  days. 
What  with  the  men  who  think  one  knows  everything  and 
won't  tell,  and  the  men  who  think  they  know  everything  and 
want  to  tell,  it's  a  bit  trying." 

Hilda  laughed  merrily.  "Poor  Uncle  Bob,"  she  said,  giv- 
ing him  her  childhood's  name  that  had  never  been  discon- 
tinued between  them.  "You  shall  come  home  with  me,  and 
sit  in  father's  chair,  and  have  a  still  decent  whisky  and  a 
cigar,  and  if  you're  very  good  I'll  read  you  part  of  Peter's 
letter." 

"What  would  Peter  say?" 

"Oh,  he  wouldn't  mind  the  bits  I'll  read  to  you.  Indeed, 
I  think  he'd  like  it :  he'd  like  to  know  what  you  think.  You 
see,  he's  awfully  depressed;  he  feels  he's  not  wanted  out 
there,  and — though  I  don't  know  what  he  means — that 
things,  religious  things,  you  know,  aren't  real." 

"Not  wanted,  eh?"  queried  the  old  soldier.  "Now,  I 
wonder  why  he  resents  tliat.  Is  it  because  he  feels  snubbed? 
I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  had  a  bit  of  a  swelled  head, 
your  young  man,  you  know,  Hilda." 

"Sir  Robert  Doyle,  if  you're  going  to  be  beastly,  you  cap 
go  to  your  horrid  old  club,  and  I  only  hope  you'll  be  wor- 
ried to  deadi.  Of  course  it  isn't  that.  Besides,  he  says 
everyone  is  very  friendly  and  welcomes  him — only  he  feel 
that  that  makes  it  worse.  He  thinks  they  don't  want — well 
what  he  has  to  give,  I  suppose." 


6o  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"\Vhat  he  has  to  give?  But  what  in  the  world  has  he  to 
give?  He  has  to  take  parade  services,  and  visit  hospitals 
and"  (he  was  just  going  to  say  "bury  the  dead,"  but  thought 
it  hardly  sounded  pleasant),  "make  himself  generally  decent 
and  useful,  I  suppose.  That's  what  chaplains  did  when  I 
was  a  subaltern,  and  jolly  decent  fellows  they  usually  were." 

"Well,  I  know.  That's  what  I  should  feel,  and  that's 
what  I  don't  quite  understand.  I  suppose  he  feels  he's  re- 
sponsible for  making  the  men  religious — it  reads  like  tliat. 
But  you  shall  hear  the  letter  yourself." 

Doyle  digested  this  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  he  gave 
a  sort  of  snort,  which  is  inimitable,  but  always  accompanied 
his  outbursts  against  things  slightly  more  recent  than  the 
sixties.     It  had  the  effect  of  rousing  Hilda,  at  any  rate. 

"Don't,  you  dear  old  thing,"  she  said,  clutching  his  arm. 
"I  know  exactly  what  you're  going  to  say.  Young  men  of 
your  day  minded  their  business  and  did  their  duty,  and 
didn't  theorise  so  much.  Very  likely.  But,  you  see,  our 
young  men  had  the  misfortune  to  be  born  a  little  later  than 
you.  And  they  can't  help  it."  She  sighed  a  little.  "It  is 
trying  sometimes.  .  .  .  But  they're  all  right  really,  and 
they'll  come  back  to  things." 

They  were  at  the  gate  by  now.  Sir  Robert  stood  aside 
to  let  her  pass.  "I  know,  dear,"  he  said,  "I'm  an  old  fogey. 
Besides,  young  Graham  has  good  stuff  in  him — I  always 
said  so.  But  if  he's  on  the  tack  of  trying  to  stick  his 
fingers  into  people's  souls,  he's  made  a  mistake  in  going  to 
France.  I  know  Tommy — or  I  did  know  him.  (The  Lord 
alone  knows  what's  in  the  Army  these  days.)  He  doesn't 
want  that  sort  of  thing.  He  swears  and  he  grouses  and  he 
drinks,  but  he  respects  God  Almighty  more  than  you'd  think, 
and  he  serves  his  Queen — I  mean  his  King.  A  parade  service 
is  a  parade,  and  it's  a  bore  at  times,  but  it's  discipline,  and 
it  helps  in  the  end.  Like  that  little  *do'  to-night,  it  helps. 
One  comes  away  feelin'  one  can  stand  a  bit  more  for  the 
sake  of  the  decent,  clean  things  of  life." 

Hilda  regarded  the  fine,  straight  old  man  for  a  second  as 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  6i 

they  stood  on  the  top  of  the  steps.  Then  her  eyes  grew  a 
little  misty.  "God  bless  you,  Uncle  Bob,"  she  said.  "You 
do  understand."    And  the  two  went  in  together. 

Hilda  opened  the  door  of  the  study.  "I'm  going  to  make 
you  comfortable  myself,"  she  said.  She  pulled  a  big  arm- 
chair round;  placed  a  reading-lamp  on  a  small  table  and 
drew  it  close;  and  she  made  the  old  soldier  sit  in  the  chair. 
Then  she  unlocked  a  little  cupboard,  and  got  out  a  decanter 
and  siphon  and  glass,  and  a  box  of  cigars.  She  placed  tliese 
by  his  side,  and  stood  back  quizzically  a  second.  Then  she 
threw  a  big  leather  cushion  at  his  feet  and  walked  to  the 
switches,  turning  off  the  main  light  and  leaving  only  the 
shaded  radiance  of  the  reading-lamp.  She  turned  the  shade 
of  it  so  that  the  light  would  fall  on  the  letter  while  she  sat 
on  the  cushion,  and  then  she  bent  down,  kissed  her  godfather, 
and  »vent  to  the  door.  "I  won't  be  a  moment,  Uncle  Bob," 
she  said.     "Help  yourself,  and  get  comfortable." 

Five  minutes  later  the  door  opened  and  she  came  in.  As 
she  moved  into  the  circle  of  light,  the  man  felt  an  absurd 
satisfaction,  as  if  he  were  partly  responsible  for  the  dignified 
figure  with  its  beautifully  waved  soft,  fair  hair,  of  which 
he  was  so  proud.  She  smiled  on  him,  and  sat  down  at  his 
feet,  leaning  back  against  his  chair  and  placing  her  left  el- 
bow on  his  knees.  He  laid  a  caressing  hand  on  her  arm, 
and  then  looked  steadily  in  front  of  him  lest  he  should  see 
more  than  she  wished. 

Hilda  rustled  the  sheets.  "The  first  is  all  about  me,"  she 
explained,  "and  I'll  skip  that.  Let  me  see — yes,  here  we  are. 
Now  listen.  It's  rather  long,  but  you  mustn't  say  anything 
till  I've  finished." 

"  'Saturday'  (Peter's  letter  ran)  T  gave  up  to  getting 
ready  for  Sunday,  though  Harold'  (he's  the  O.C.  of  the 
camp,  Peter  says,  a  jolly  decent  sort  of  man)  'wanted  me 
to  go  up  town  with  him.  I  had  had  a  talk  with  him  about 
the  services,  and  had  fixed  up  to  have  a  celebration  in  the 
morning  in  the  Y.M.C.A.  in  camp — they  have  a  quiet  room, 
and  there  is  a  table  in  it  that  one  puts  against  the  wall  and 


62  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

uses  for  an  altar — and  an  evening  service  in  the  canteen- 
hall  part  of  the  place.  I  couldn't  have  a  morning  service, 
as  I  was  to  go  out  to  the  forest  camp,  as  I  have  told  you.* 
He  said  in  his  first  letter  how  he  had  been  motored  out  to 
see  a  camp  in  the  forest  where  they  are  cutting  wood  for 
something,  and  he  had  fixed  up  a  parade,"  said  Hilda,  look- 
ing up.  Doyle  nodded  gravely,  and  she  went  on  reading: 
"  'Harold  said  he'd  like  to  take  Communion,  and  that  I 
could  put  up  a  notice  in  the  anteroom  of  the  Officers'  Mess. 

"  'Well,  I  spent  the  morning  preparing  sermons.  I  thought 
I'd  preach  from  "The  axe  is  laid  to  the  root  of  the  tree"  in 
the  forest,  and  make  a  sort  of  little  parable  out  of  it  for 
the  men.  I  planned  to  say  how  Christ  was  really  watching 
and  testing  each  one  of  us,  especially  out  here,  and  to  begin 
by  talking  a  bit  about  Germany,  and  how  the  axe  was  being 
laid  to  that  tree  because  it  wouldn't  bear  good  fruit.  I 
couldn't  get  much  for  the  evening,  so  I  thought  I'd  leave  it, 
and  perhaps  say  much  the  same  as  the  morning,  only  differ- 
ently introduced.  I  went  and  saw  the  hut  manager,  a  very 
decent  fellow  who  is  a  Baptist  minister  at  home,  and  he  said 
he'd  like  to  come  in  the  morning.  Well,  I  didn't  know  what 
to  say  to  that;  I  hated  to  hurt  him,  and,  of  course,  he  has 
no  Baptist  chapel  out  here ;  but  I  didn't  know  what  the  reg- 
ulations might  be,  and  excused  myself  on  those  grounds. 

"  'Then  in  the  afternoon  I  went  round  the  camp.  Oh, 
Hilda,  I  was  fearfully  nervous — I  don't  know  why  exactly, 
but  I  was.  The  men  were  playing  "crown  and  anchor,"  and 
sleeping,  and  cleaning  kit  (this  is  a  rest  camp  you  know), 
and  it  seemed  so  cold-blooded  somehow.  I  told  them  any- 
one could  come  in  the  evening  if  he  wanted  to,  but  that  in 
the  morning  the  service  was  for  Church  of  England  com- 
municants. I  must  say  I  was  very  bucked  up  over  the  result. 
I  had  no  end  of  promises,  and  those  who  were  going  to  be 
out  in  the  evening  said  so  straight  out.  Quite  thirty  said 
they'd  come  in  the  morning,  and  they  were  very  respectful 
and  decent.  Then  I  wrote  out  and  put  up  my  notices.  The 
mess  ragged  a  bit  about  it,  but  quite  decently  ("Here's  the 


'^      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  63 

padre  actually  going  to  do  a  bit  of  work!"  and  the  usual 
"I  shall  be  a  chaplain  in  the  next  war!")  ;  and  I  mentioned 
to  one  or  two  whom  I  knew  to  be  Church  of  England  that 
Captain  Harold  had  said  he  would  come  to  the  early  service. 
Someone  had  told  me  that  if  the  O.C.  of  a  camp  comes,  the 
others  often  will.  After  dinner  we  settled  down  to  bridge, 
and  about  "ten-thirty  I  was  just  going  ofl  to  bed  when  Harold 
came  in  with  two  or  three  other  men.  Well,  I  hate  to  tell 
vou,  dear,  but  I  promised  I'd  write,  and,  besides,  I  do  want 
to  talk  to  somebody.  Anyway,  he  was  what  they  call 
"merry,"  and  he  and  his  friends  were  full  of  talk  about 
what  they'd  done  up  town.  I  don't  know  that  it  was  any- 
thing very  bad,  but  it  was  awful  to  me  to  think  that  this 
chap  was  going  to  communicate  next  day,  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do,  but  I  couldn't  say  anything  then,  and  I  slipped 
off  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  could.  They  made  a  huge  row  in 
the  anteroom  for  some  time,  but  at  last  I  got  to  sleep. 

"  'Next  morning  I  was  up  early,  and  got  things  fixed  up 
nicely.    At  eight  o'clock  one  man  came  rather  sheepishly — a 
.young  chap  I'd  seen  the  day  before — and  I  waited  for  some 
'  five  minutes  more.    Then  I  began.    About  the  Creed,  Har- 
old came  in,  and  so  we  finished  the  service.     Neither  of 
them  seemed  to  know  the  responses  at  all,  and  I  don't  think 
I  have  ever  felt  more  miserable.    However,  I  had  done  all 
I  could  do,  and  I  let  it  go  at  that.    I  comforted  myself  that 
*    I  would  get  on  better  m  the  forest,  where  I  thought  there 
was  to  be  a  parade. 

"  'We  got  out  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  went  to  the 
O.C.'s  hut.  He  was  sitting  in  a  deck  chair  reading  a  novel. 
He  jumped  up  when  he  saw  me,  and  was  full  of  apologies. 
He'd  absolutely  forgotten  I  was  coming,  and  so  no  notice 
had  been  given,  and,  anyway,  apparently  it  isn't  the  custom 
in  these  camps  to  have  ordered  parade  services.  He  sent 
for  the  Sergeant-Major,  who  said  the  men  were  mostly 
cleaning  camp,  but  he  thought  he  could  get  some  together. 
So  I  sat  and  talked  for  about  twenty  minutes,  and  then  went 
over.    The  canteen  had  been  opened,  and  there  were  about 


64  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

twenty  men  there.  They  all  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
forced  in,  except  one,  who  turned  out  to  be  a  Wesleyan,  and 
chose  tlie  hymns  out  of  the  Y.M.C.A.  books  in  tlie  place. 
They  had  mission  hymns,  and  the  only  one  that  went  well 
was  "Throw  out  the  life-line,"  which  is  really  a  rather 
ghastly  thing.  We  had  short  Matins,  and  I  preached  as  I 
had  arranged.  The  men  sat  stiflly  and  looked  at  me.  I 
don't  know  why,  but  I  couldn't  work  up  any  entluisiasm 
and  it  all  seemed  futile.  Afterwards  I  tried  to  talk  to  this 
Wesleyan  corporal.  He  was  great  on  forming  a  choir  to 
learn  hymns,  and  then  I  said  straight  out  that  I  was  new  to 
this  sort  of  work,  and  I  hoped  what  I  had  said  was  all  right. 
He  said:  "Yes,  sir,  very  nice,  I'm  sure;  but,  if  you'll  ex- 
cuse me,  what  the  men  need  is  converting." 

"  'Said  I :    "What  exactly  do  you  mean  by  that,  corporal  ?" 

"  '  "Well,  sir,"  he  said  "they  want  to  be  led  to  put  their 
trust  in  the  Lord  and  get  right  with  God.  There's  many  a 
rough  lad  in  this  camp,  sir.  If  you  knew  what  went  on, 
you'd  see  it." 

"  'I  said  that  I  had  told  them  God  was  watching  them, 
and  that  we  had  to  ask  His  daily  help  to  live  clean,  honest 
lives,  and  truly  repent  of  our  sins. 

"  '  "Yes,  you  did,  sir,"  he  said.  "That's  wliat  I  say,  sir, 
it  was  very  nice ;  only  somehow  these  chaps  have  heard  that 
before.  It  don't  grip,  sir.  Now,  we  had  a  preacher  in  our 
chapel  once  .  .  ."  And  he  went  on  to  tell  me  of  some  re- 
vival mission, 

"  'Well,  I  went  back  to  the  O.C.  He  wanted  me  to  have 
a  drink,  and  I  did,  for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  felt  like  it. 
Then  I  got  back  to  camp. 

"  'In  the  afternoon  I  went  round  the  lines  again.  Hilda, 
I  ttrish  I  could  tell  you  what  I  felt.  Everyone  was  decent 
enough,  but  the  men  would  get  up  and  salute  as  I  came  up, 
and  by  the  very  sound  of  their  voices  you  could  tell  how  their 
talk  changed  as  soon  as  they  saw  me.  Mind  you,  they  were 
much  more  friendly  than  men  at  home,  but  I  felt  all  the 
time  out  of  touch.     They  didn't  want  me,  and  somehow 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  6Si 

Christ  and  the  Gospel  seemed  a  long  way  off.  However,  we 
had  the  evening  service.  The  hut  was  fairly  full,  which 
pleased  me,  and  I  preached  a  much  more  "Gospel"  address 
than  in  the  morning.  Some  officers  came,  and  then  after- 
wards two  or  three  of  us  went  out  for  a  stroll  and  a  talk. 

"  'Among  these  officers  was  a  tall  chap  I  had  met  at  the 
club,  named  Langton.  He  had  come  down  to  see  somebody 
in  our  mess,  and  had  come  on  to  service.  He  is  an  extra- 
ordinarily nice  person,  different  from  most,  a  man  who 
thinks  a  lot  and  controls  himself.  He  did  most  of  the  talk- 
ing, and  began  as  we  strolled  up  the  hill. 

"  '  "Padre,"  he  said,  "how  docs  Christ  save  us?" 

"  'I  said  He  had  died  to  obtain  our  forgiveness  from 
God,  and  that,  if  we  tru>ted  in  Him,  He  would  forgive  and 
help  us  to  live  nobler  and  manlier  lives.  (Of  course,  I  said 
much  more,  but  I  see  plainly  that  that  is  what  it  all  comes  to.) 

"  'When  I  bad  done,  he  walked  on  for  a  bit  in  silence, 
and  then  he  said,  "Do  you  think  the  men  understand  that?" 

"  'I  said  I  thought  and  hoped  tliey  might.  It  was  simple 
enough. 

"  '  "Well,"  he  said,  "it's  hopeless  jargon  to  me.  If  I  try 
to  analyse  it,  I  am  knocked  out  right  and  left  by  countless 
questions ;  but  leave  that.  It  is  when  I  try  to  take  you  prac- 
tically at  your  word  that  I  find  you  are  mumbling  a  fetish. 
Forgive  me,  but  it  is  so." 

"  'I  was  a  little  annoyed  and  very  troubled.  "Do  explain," 
I  said. 

"  '  "All  right,  only  you  mustn't  mind  if  I  hurt  you,"  he 
said.  "Take  Trust  in  Christ — well,  that  either  means  that 
a  man  gets  intoxicated  by  an  idea  which  does  control  his 
life,  just  as  it  would  if  he  were  intoxicated  by  the  idea  Trust 
in  Buddha,  or  else  it  comes  to  nothing.  I  can't  really  trust 
in  a  dead  man,  or  a  man  on  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  of 
God.  What  Tommy  wants  is  a  pal  to  lean  on  in  the  can- 
teen and  the  street.  He  wants  somebody  more  real  and 
more  lovable  and  more  desirable  than  the  girl  who  tempts 
him  into  sin.    And  he  can't  be  found.    Was  he  in  your  serv- 


66  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

ice  to-night?  Can  he  be  emotionally  conjured  up  by  'Yield 
not  to  temptation'  or  'Dare  to  be  a  Daniel'?  Be  honest, 
padre — the  thing  is  a  spectre  of  the  imagination." 

"  T  was  absolutely  silent.     He  went  on : 

"  '  "You  make  much  talk  of  sin  and  forgiveness.  Well, 
Tommy  doesn't  understand  what  you  mean  by  sin.  He  is 
confused  to  bits  about  it ;  but  the  main  thing  that  stands 
out  is  that  a  man  may  break  all  the  Ten  Commandments 
theologically  and  yet  be  a  rattling  good  pal,  as  brave  as  a 
lion,  as  merry  as  a  cricket,  and  the  life  and  soul  and  Christ 
of  a  platoon.  That's  the  fact,  and  it  is  the  one  thing  that 
matters.  But  there  is  another  thing:  if  a  man  sins,  how 
is  he  to  get  forgiveness?  What  sort  of  a  God  is  it  Who  will 
wipe  the  whole  blessed  thing  out  because  in  a  moment  of 
enthusiasm  the  sinner  says  he  is  sorry?  If  that's  all  sin  is» 
it  isn't  worth  worrying  about,  and  if  that  is  all  God  is,  He's 
not  got  the  makings  of  a  decent  O.C." 

"  '  "Good  for  you,  skipper,"  said  the  other  man. 

"  'Langton  rounded  on  him.  "It  isn't  good  for  me  or  for 
anyone,"  he  said.  "And  I'll  tell  you  what,  my  boy:  all  that 
I've  said  doesn't  justify  a  man  making  a  beast  of  himself, 
which  is  what  the  majority  of  us  do.    I  can  see  that  a  man 

may  very  wisely  get  drunk  at  times,  but  he's  a fool  to 

get  himself  sodden  with  drink."  (And  he  went  on  to  more, 
Hilda,  that  I  can't  write  to  you.) 

"  'Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  said.  I  went  back  utterly 
miserable.  Oh,  Hilda,  I  think  I  never  ought  to  have  come 
out  here.  Langton's  right  in  a  way.  We  clergy  have  said 
the  same  thing  so  often  that  we  forget  how  it  strikes  a 
practical  common-sense  man.  But  there  must  be  an  answer 
somewhere,  if  I  only  knew  it.  Meantime  I'm  like  a  doctor 
among  the  dying  who  cannot  diagnose  the  disease.  I'm  like 
a  salesman  with  a  shop  full  of  goods  that  nobody  wants^ 
because  they  don't  fulfil  the  advertisement.  And  I  never 
felt  more  utterly  alone  in  my  life, 

"  'These  men  talk  a  different  language  from  mine ;  they 
belong  to  another  world.    They  are  such  jolly  good  fellows 


^     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  67 

that  they  are  prepared  to  accept  me  as  a  comrade  without 
question,  but  as  for  my  message,  I  might  as  well  be  trying 
to  cure  smallpox  by  mouthing  sonorous  Virgil — only  it  is 
worse  than  that,  for  they  no  longer  even  believe  that  the 
diagnosis  is  what  I  say.  And  what  gets  over  me  is  that  they 
are,  on  the  whole,  decent  chaps.  There's  Harold — he's  prob- 
ably immoral  and  he  certainly  drinks  too  much,  but  he's  as 
unselfish  as  possible,  and  I  feel  in  my  bones  he'd  do  any- 
thing to  help  a  friend. 

"  'Of  course,  I  hate  their  vices.  The  sights  in  the  streets 
make  me  feel  positively  sick.  I  wouldn't  touch  what  they 
touch  with  a  stick.  When  I  think  of  you,  so  honest  and  up- 
right and  clean  .  .  .'  Oh,  but  I  needn't  read  that.  Uncle 
Bob."  She  turned  over  a  page  or  so.  "I  think  that's  all. 
No,  just  this : 

"  'I've  been  made  mess  secretary,  and  I  serve  out  coffee  in 
the  canteen  for  a  couple  of  hours  every  other  day.  That's 
about  all  there  is  to  do.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  an  ordinary 
commission !" 

The  girl's  voice  ceased  with  a  suspicious  suddenness,  and 
the  man's  hand  tightened  on  her  arm.  For  a  minute  they 
remained  so,  and  then,  impulsively  and  unrestrained,  she 
half -turned  and  sobbed  out  against  his  knees: 

"Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  I'm  so  unhappy!  I  feel  so  sorry  for 
him.  And — and — the  worst  is,  I  don't  really  understand. 
...  I  don't  see  what  worries  him.  Our  religion  is  good 
enough,  I'm  sure.  Oh,  I  hate  those  beasts  of  men  out  there ! 
Peter's  too  good  for  them.  I  wish  he'd  never  gone.  I  feel 
as  if  he'd  never  come  back !" 

"There,  there,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  soldier,  uncomfort- 
ably. "Don't  take  on  so.  He'll  find  his  feet,  you  know. 
It's  not  so  bad  as  that.    You  can  trust  him,  can't  you?" 

She  nodded  vigorously.  "But  what  do  you  think  of  it 
all?"  she  demanded. 

Sir  Robert  Doyle  cleared  his  throat.  "Well,"  he  began, 
but  stopped.  To  him  it  was  an  extraordinarily  hard  thing 
to  speak  of  religion,  partly  because  he  cherished  so  whole- 


6S  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

heartedly  what  he  had  got,  and  partly  because  he  had  never 
formulated  it,  probably  for  that  very  reason.  Sir  Robert 
could  hardly  have  told  his  Maker  what  he  believed  about 
Him.  When  he  said  the  Creed  he  always  said  it  with  low- 
ered voice  and  bowed  head,  as  one  who  considered  very 
deeply  of  the  matter,  but  in  fact  he  practically  never  con- 
sidered at  all.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  he  began  again,  "you  see,  dear,  it's  a  strange  time 
out  there,  and  it  is  a  damned  unpleasant  age,  if  you'll  excuse 
me.  People  can't  take  anything  these  days  without  asking  an 
infernal  number  of  questions.  Some  blessed  Socialist'll  be- 
gin to  ask  why  a  man  should  love  his  mother  next,  and,  not 
[getting  a  scientific  answer,  argue  that  one  shouldn't.  As  for 
the  men,  they're  all  right,  or  they  used  to  be.  'Love  the 
Brotherhood.  Fear  God.  Honour  the  King' — that's  about 
enough  for  you  and  mc,  I  take  it,  and  Graham'U  find  it's 
enough  for  him.  And  he'll  play  the  game,  and  decent  men 
will  like  him  and  get — er — helped,  my  dear.  That's  all  there 
is  to  it.  But  it's  a  pity,"  added  the  old  Victorian  Regular, 
"that  these  blessed  labour  corps,  and  rest  camps,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it,  don't  have  parade  services.  The  boy's  bound  to 
miss  that.  I'm  hanged  if  I  don't  speak  about  it!  .  .  And 
that  reminds  me  .  .  .    Good  Lord,  it's  ten  o'clock!    I  must 

go- 
He  started  up.     Hilda  rose,  smiling  a  little. 

"That's  better,"  said  the  old  fellow ;  "must  be  a  man, 
what?     It's  all  a  bit  of  the  war,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Bob,  you  are  a  dear.  You  do  cheer  one  up, 
somehow.     I  wish  men  were  more  like  you." 

"No,  you  don't,  my  dear,  don't  you  think  it.  I'm  a  back 
number,  and  you  know  it  as  well  as  any." 

"You're  not,  Uncle  Bob.  I  won't  have  you  say  it.  Give 
me  a  kiss  and  say  you  don't  mean  it." 

"Well,  well,  Hilda,  there  is  life  in  the  old  dog  yet,  and  I 
must  be  off  and  show  it.  No,  I  won't  have  another,  not 
before  duty.     Good-night,   dear,  and   don't  worry." 

Hilda  saw  him  off,  and  waved  her  hand  from  the  door. 


"     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  69 

Then  she  went  back  slowly  to  the  study  and  looked  round. 
She  stood  a  few  moments  and  then  switched  off  tlie  lights, 
and  went  out  and  slowly  upstairs.  The  maid  was  in  the 
bedroom,  and  she  dismissed  her,  keeping  her  face  turned 
away.  In  front  of  her  glass,  she  held  her  letter  irresolutely 
a  moment,  and  then  folded  it  and  slipped  it  into  a  drawer. 
She  lifted  a  photo  from  the  dressing-table  and  looked  at  it  for 
a  few  minutes  earnestly.  Then  she  went  to  her  window, 
threw  it  up,  and  leaned  on  the  sill,  staring  hard  over  the 
dark  and  empty  park. 

Outside,  tlie  General  walked  some  distance  before  he 
found  a  taxi.  He  walked  fast  for  a  man  of  his  age,  and 
ruminated  as  he  went.  It  was  his  way,  and  the  way  of  his 
kind.  Most  of  the  modern  sciences  left  him  unmoved,  and 
although  he  would  vehemently  have  denied  it,  he  was  the 
most  illogical  of  men.  He  held  fast  by  a  few  good,  sound, 
old-fashioned  principles,  and  the  process  of  thought,  to  him, 
meant  turning  over  a  new  thing  until  he  had  got  it  into  line 
witli  these  principles.  It  was  an  excellent  method  as  far  as 
it  went,  and  it  made  him  what  he  was — a  thoroughly  sound 
and  dependable  servant  of  the  State  in  any  routine  business. 

At  the  War  Office  he  climbed  more  slowly  up  the  steps 
and  into  the  lobby.  An  officer  was  just  coming  out,  and 
they  recognised  each  other  under  the  shaded  lights.  "Hullo, 
Chichester,  what  are  you  doing  here?"  demanded  Doyle 
heartily.    'Thought  you  were  in  France." 

"So  I  was,  up  to  yesterday.    I've  just  arrived.    Orders." 

"Where  have  you  been  ?" 

"Rouen.  It's  a  big  show  now.  Place  full  of  new  troops 
and  mechanics  in  uniform.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Doyle,  the 
Army's  a  different  proposition  from  what  it  was  when  you 
and  I  were  in  Egypt  and  India.  But  that's  a  long  time  ago, 
old  friend." 

"Rouen,  eh?  Now,  that's  a  coincidence.  A  young  chap 
I  know  has  just  gone  there,  in  your  department.  Graham — 
Peter  Graham.    Remember  him?" 

"Oh,  quite  well.    A  very  decent  chap,  I  thought.    Joined 


70  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

us  ten  days  ago  or  so.  \Vliat  about  it?  I  forget  for  the 
moment  where  we  put  him." 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing.  He'll  find  his  feet  all  right.  But 
what's  this  about  no  parade  services  these  days?" 

"No  parade  services?  We  have  'em  all  right,  when  we 
can.  Of  course,  it  depends  a  bit  on  the  O.C,  and  in  the 
Labour  Corps  especially  it  isn't  usually  possible.  It  isn't 
like  the  line,  old  fellow,  and  even  the  line  isn't  what  we 
knew  it.  You  can't  have  parade  services  in  trenches,  and 
you  can't  have  them  much  when  the  men  are  oflf-loading 
bully  beef  or  mending  aeroplanes  and  that  sort  of  thing. 
This  war's  a  big  proposition,  and  it's  got  to  go  on.  Why? 
Young  Graham  grousing?" 

"No,  no — oh,  no,"  hastily  asserted  Doyle,  the  soul  of 
honour.  "No,  not  at  all.  Only  mentioned  not  getting  a 
parade,  and  it  seemed  to  me  a  pity.  There's  a  lot  in  the 
good  old  established  religion." 

"Is  there?"  said  the  other  thoughtfully.  "I'm  not  so 
«ure  to-day.  The  men  don't  like  being  ordered  to  pray. 
They  prefer  to  come  voluntarily." 

Doyle  got  fierce.  "Don't  like  being  ordered,  don't  they? 
Then  what  the  deuce  are  they  there  for  ?  Good  Lord,  man ! 
the  Army  isn't  a  debating  society  or  a  mothers'  meeting. 
You  might  as  well  have  voluntary  games  at  a  public  school !" 

The  A.C.G.  smiled.  "That's  it,  old  headstrong!  No,  my 
boy,  the  Army  isn't  a  mothers'  meeting — at  any  rate,  Fritz 
doesn't  think  so.  But  times  have  changed,  and  in  some 
ways  they're  better.  I'd  sooner  have  fifty  men  at  a  volun- 
tary service  than  two  hundred  on  a  parade." 

"Well,  I  wouldn't,"  exploded  Doyle.  "I  know  your  vol- 
untary services — Moody  and  Sankey  hymns  on  a  Sunday 
night.  The  men  had  better  be  in  a  decent  bar.  But  turn 
'em  out  in  the  morning,  clean  and  decent  on  parade,  and 
give  'em  the  old  service,  and  it'll  tighten  'em  up  and  do 
'em  good.  Voluntary  service!  You'll  have  volunteer  evan- 
gelists instead  of  Army  chaplains  next !" 

Colonel  Chichester  still  smiled,  but  a  little  grimly.    "We've 


'     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  71 

got  them,"  he  said.  "And  no  doubt  there's  something  in 
what  you  say ;  but  times  change,  and  the  Church  has  got  to 
keep  abreast  of  the  times.  But,  look  here,  I  must  go.  What 
about  a  luncheon?    I've  not  got  much  leave." 

"So  must  I ;  I've  an  appointment,"  said  Doyle.  "But  all 
right,  old  friend,  to-morrow  at  the  club.  But  you're  younger 
than  I,  Chichester,  or  perhaps  you  parsons  don't  get  old 
as  quickly!" 

They  shook  hands  and  parted.  Sir  Robert  was  busy  for 
an  hour,  and  came  out  again  with  his  head  full  of  the  pro- 
posed plans  for  the  aerial  defence  of  London.  "Taxi,  sir?" 
he  was  asked  at  the  door.  "No,"  he  replied;  "I'll  walk 
home." 

"Best  way  to  think,  walking  at  night,"  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  turned  down  Whitehall,  through  the  all  but  empty 
streets,  darkened  as  they  were.  The  meaning  of  those  great 
familiar  spaces  struck  him  as  he  walked.  Hardly  formu- 
lating it,  he  became  aware  of  a  sense  of  pride  and  responsi- 
bility as  he  passed  scene  after  scene  of  England's  past  glory. 
The  old  Abbey  towered  up  in  the  moonlight,  solemn  and 
still,  but  almost  as  if  animate  and  looking  at  him.  He  felt 
small  and  old  as  he  passed  into  Victoria  Street.  There  the 
Stores  by  night  made  him  smile  at  the  contrast,  but  in 
Ashley  Gardens  Westminster  Cathedral  made  him  frown.  If 
he  hated  anjthing,  it  was  that  for  which  it  stood.  Romanism 
meant  to  him  something  effeminate,  sneaking,  monstrous. 
.  .  .  That  there  should  be  Englishmen  to  build  such  a  place 
positively  angered  him.  He  was  not  exactly  a  bigot  or  a 
fanatic ;  he  would  not  have  repealed  the  Emancipation  Acts ; 
and  he  would  have  said  that  if  anyone  wanted  to  be  a  Ro- 
manist, he  had  better  be  one.  But  he  would  not  have  had 
time  for  anyone  who  did  so  want,  and  if  he  should  have  had 
to  have  by  any  chance  dealings  with  a  priest,  he  would  have 
been  so  frigidly  polite  that  the  poor  fellow  would  probably 
have  been  frozen  solid.  Of  course,  Irishmen  were  different, 
and  he  had  known  some  capital  fellows,  Irish  priests  and 
chaplains.  .  .  . 


fz  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

And  then  he  saw  two  men  ahead  of  him.  They  were 
privates  on  leave  and  drunk,  but  not  hopelessly  drunk.  They 
were  trying  to  negotiate  the  blank  of  the  entrance  to  the 
Catholic  Soldiers'  Hut  in  the  protecting  wall  which  guarded 
the  pavement  just  beyond  the  cathedral.  As  Sir  Robert 
came  within  earshot,  one  of  them  stumbled  through  it  and 
collapsed  profanely.  He  halted  for  a  second  irresolutely, 
with  the  officer's  hesitancy  at  meddling  with  a  drunken  man. 

The  fellow  on  the  ground  tried  to  raise  hinisclf,  and  got 
one  elbow  on  the  gravel.  This  brought  him  into  such  a 
position  that  he  stared  straight  at  the  illuminated  crucifix 
across  the  path,  and  but  little  farther  in. 

"Lor',  blimey,  Joe,"  he  said,  "I'm  blasted  drunk,  I  am! 
Thought  I  was  in  old  Wipers,  I  did,  and  see  one  of  them 
blessed  cru-crushifi.\es!" 

The  other,  rather  less  away,  pulled  at  his  arm.  "So  yer 
did,  ole  pal,"  he  said.  "It's  there  now.  This  'ere's  some 
Cartholic  place  or  other.     Come  hon." 

"Strike  me  dead,  so  it  is,  Joe,  large  as  life!  Christ!  oo'd 
*ave  thought  it?  A  bloody  cru-cru-chifix !  Wat's  old  Eng- 
land comin'  to,  Joe?"  And  with  drunken  solemnity  he 
begnn  to  make  a  sign  of  the  cross,  as  he  had  seen  it  done 
in  Belgium. 

The  other,  in  the  half-liglit,  plainly  started.  "Shut  your 
bloody  jaw,  'Enery,"  he  said.  "It's  bad  luck  to  swear  near 
a  cruchifix.  I  saw  three  chaps  blotted  out  clean  next  second 
for  it,  back  behind  Lar  Basay.  Come  on,  will  yer?  We 
carn't  stay  'ere  all  the  blasted  night." 

"You  arc  down  on  a  chap,  you  are,"  said  the  other.  "Hi 
don't  mean  no  'arm.  'E  ought  to  know  that,  any'ow."  He 
got  unsteadily  to  his  feet.  "  'E  died  to  save  us,  'E  did.  I 
'eard  a  Y.M.C.A.  bloke  say  them  very  words.  'E  died  on 
the  cru-cru-chifi.x  to  save  us." 

"  'Ere,  cheese  it,  you  fool !  We'll  have  somebody  out  next. 
Come  away  with  yer.  I've  got  some  Bass  in  my  place,  if 
we  git  there." 

At  tliis  the  other  consented  to  come.    Together  they  stag- 


^      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  73 

gered  out,  not  seeing  Sir  Robert,  and  went  off  down  the 
street,  "  'Enery"  talking  as  they  went.  The  General  stood 
and  Hstened  as  the  man's  voice  died  down. 

"Good  for  yer,  old  i)al.  But  *E  died  to  save  us  hall,  'E  did. 
Made  a  bloomer  of  it,  I  reckon.  Didn't  save  us  from  the 
bloody  trenches — not  as  I  can  see,  any'ow.  If  that  chap 
could  'avctold  us  'ow  to  get  saved  from  the  blasted  rats  an' 
bugs  an'  .  .  ." 

Sir  Robert  pulled  himself  together  and  walked  away 
sharply.  By  the  cathedral  the  carven  Christ  hung  on  in  tlic 
wan  yellow  light,  very  still. 


CHAPTER  V 

PETER  lay  on  a  home-made  bed  between  the  blankets 
and  contemplated  the  ceilinp  while  he  smoked  his  first 
cigarette.  He  had  been  a  fortnight  at  Rouen,  and  he  was 
])cginning  to  feel  an  old  soldier — that  is  to  say,  he  was 
learning  not  to  worry  too  much  about  outside  things,  and  not 
to  show  he  worried  [particularly  about  the  interior.  He  was 
learning  to  stand  around  and  smoke  endless  cigarettes;  to 
stroll  in  to  breakfast  and  out  again,  look  over  a  paper,  sniff 
the  air,  write  a  letter,  read  another  paper,  wander  round  the 
camp,  talk  a  lot  of  rubbish  and  listen  to  more,  and  so  do  a 
morning's  work.  Occasionally  he  took  a  service,  but  his  real 
job  was,  as  mess  secretary,  to  despatch  the  man  to  town  for 
the  shopping  and  afterwards  go  and  settle  the  bills.  Just 
at  present  he  was  wondering  sleepily  whether  to  continue 
ordering  fish  from  the  big  merchants,  Biais  Freres  et  Cie,  or 
to  go  down  to  the  market  and  choose  it  for  himself.  It  was 
a  very  knotty  problem,  because  solving  it  in  the  latter  way 
meant  getting  up  at  once.  And  his  batman  had  not  yet 
brought  his  tea. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  tea  came  in. 
With  it  was  a  folded  note.  "Came  last  night,  sir,  but  you 
was  out,"  said  the  man.  He  collected  his  master's  tunic  and 
boots,  and  departed. 

Peter  opened  the  note  and  swore  definitely  and  unclerically 
when  he  had  read  it.  It  was  from  some  unknown  person, 
who  signed  himself  as  Acting  Assistant  Chaplain-General, 
to  the  efltect  that  he  was  to  be  moved  to  another  base,  and 
that  as  the  A.C.G.  was  temporarily  on  leave,  he  had  better 
apply  to  the  Colonel  of  his  own  group  for  the  necessary 
movement  order.     On  the  whole  this  was  unintelligible  to 


"   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  75 

Peter,  but  he  was  already  learning  that  there  was  no  need 
to  worry  about  that,  for  somebody  would  be  able  to  read  the 
riddle.  What  annoyed  him  was  the  fact  that  he  had  got  to 
move  just  as  he  was  settling  down.  It  was  certainly  a  matter 
for  another  cigarette,  and  as  he  lit  it  he  perceived  one  gleam 
of  sunshine :  he  need  worry  no  more  about  the  fish. 

Peter  waited  till  Harold  had  finished  his  breakfast  before 
he  imparted  the  news  to  the  world  a  couple  of  hours  or  so 
later.    *'I  say,  skipper,"  he  said,  "I've  got  to  quit." 

"What,  padre?  Oh,  hang  it  all,  no,  man!  You've  only 
just  taken  on  the  mess  secretary's  job,  and  you  aren't  doing 
it  any  too  badly  either.     You  can't  go.  old  dear." 

"I  must.  Some  blighter's  written  from  the  A.C.G.'s  office, 
and  I've  got  to  get  a  movement  order  from  the  Colonel  of 
the  group,  whatever  that  means.  But  I  suppose  you  can  put 
me  straight  about  that,  anyway." 

"Sure  thing.  Come  up  to  the  orderly-room  'bout  eleven, 
and  you  can  fill  up  the  chit  and  I'll  fire  it  in  for  you.  It's  only 
a  matter  of  form.  It  goes  through  to  Colonel  Lear  at  La 
Croisset.     Where  to?" 

Peter  told  him  moodily. 

"Eh?"  said  Harold.  "Well,  you  can  cheer  up  about  that. 
Havre's  not  at  all  a  bad  place.  There  are  some  decent  shows 
about  there  and  some  very  decent  people.  What  you  got 
to  do?" 

"I  don't  know ;  I  suppose  I  shall  find  out  when  I  get 
there.  But  I  don't  care  what  it's  like.  It's  vile  having  to 
leave  just  now,  when  I'm  getting  straight.  And  what'Il  you 
do  for  a  four  at  bridge  ?" 

Harold  got  up  and  fumbled  in  his  pockets.  As  usual,  there 
was  nothing  there.  "Why  that  damned  batm.an  of  mine 
won't  put  my  case  in  my  pocket  I  can't  think,"  he  said.  "I'll 
have  to  fire  the  blighter,  though  he  is  T.T.  and  used  to  be  a 
P.  and  O.  steward.  Give  me  a  fag,  somebody.  Thanks. 
Well,  padre,  it's  no  use  grousing.  It's  a  beastly  old  war,  and 
you're  in  the  blinkin'  British  Army,  me  lad.  Drop  in  at 
eleven,  then.    Qieerio  till  then." 


76  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

At  eleven  Peter  found  Harold  signing  papers.  He  glanced 
up.  "Oh,  sergeant,"  he  said,  "give  Captain  Graham  a  Move- 
ment Order  Application  Form,  will  you?  Sit  down,  padre; 
there's  a  pen  there." 

Peter  wrestled  with  the  form,  which  looked  quite  pretty 
when  it  was  done.  Harold  endorsed  it.  "Fire  this  through 
to  the  orderly-room,  loth  Group,  sergeant,"  he  said,  and  rose 
wearily.  "Come  along,  padre,"  he  said:  "Fve  got  to  go 
round  the  camp,  and  you  can  come  too,  if  you've  nothing 
better  to  do." 

" When'll  I  have  to  go,  do  you  think  ?''  asked  Peter  as  they 
went  out. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  In  a  day  or  two.  You'll  have  to  hang 
about,  for  the  order  may  come  any  time,  and  1  don't  know 
how  or  when  they'll  send  you." 

Peter  did  hang  about,  for  ten  days,  with  his  kit  packed. 
His  recently  acquired  calm  forsook  him  about  the  sixth  day, 
and  on  the  tenth  he  was  entirely  mutinous.  At  lunch  he 
voiced  his  grievances  to  the  general  mess. 

"Ivook  here,  you  men,"  he  said,  "I'm  fed  up  to  the  back 
teeth.  I've  hung  round  this  blessed  camp  for  more  than  a 
week  waiting  for  that  infernal  movement  order,  and  I'm 
hanged  if  I'm  going  to  stay  in  any  more.  It's  a  topping 
afternoon.  Who'll  come  down  the  river  to  La  Bouille,  or 
whatever  it  is  called?" 

Harold  volunteered.  "That's  a  good  line,  padre.  I  want 
to  go  there  myself.    Are  the  boats  running  now?" 

"Saw  'em  yesterday,"  volunteered  somebody,  and  it  was 
settled. 

The  two  of  them  spent  a  decent  afternoon  on  the  river, 
and  at  Harold's  insistence  went  on  back  right  up  to  town. 
They  dined  and  went  to  a  cinema,  and  got  back  to  camp 
about  midnight.  Graham  struck  a  match  and  looked  at  the 
board  in  the  anteroom.  "May  as  well  see  if  there  is  an>ihing 
for  me,"  he  said.  There  was,  of  course.  He  tore  the  en- 
velope open.  "Good  Lord,  skipper!"  he  said.  "Here's  my 
blessed  movement  order,  to  report  at  the  Gare  du  Vert  at 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  77 

eight  p.m.  this  very  day,  I'm  only  four  hours  too  late. 
What  the  dickens  shall  I  do?" 

Harold  whistled.  "Show  it  me,"  he  said.  "  'The  following 
personnel  to  report  at  Gare  du  Vert  ...  at  8  p.m.  28th 
inst.'  "  he  read.  "You're  for  it,  old  bird,"  he  continued 
cheerfully.  "But  what  rot!  Look  here,  it  was  handed  in 
to  my  orderly-room  at  six-thirty.  You'd  have  hardly  had 
time  to  get  there  at  any  rate." 

Graham  looked  over  his  shoulder.  "That's  so,"  he  said. 
"But  what  '11  I  do  now?" 

"Haven't  a  notion,"  said  the  other,  "except  that  they'll 
let  you  know  quick  enough.  Don't  worry — that's  the  main 
thing.  H  they  choke  you  ofT,  tell  'em  it  came  too  late  to  get 
to  the  station." 

Peter  meditated  this  in  silence,  and  in  some  dismay.  He 
saw  visions  of  courts-martial,  furious  strafing,  and  unholy 
terrors.  He  was  to  be  forgiven,  for  he  was  new  to  comic 
opera;  and  besides,  when  a  page  of  Punch  falls  to  one  in 
real  life,  one  hardly  realises  it  till  too  late.  But  it  was  plain 
that  nothing  could  be  done  that  night,  and  he  went  to  bed 
with  what  consolation  he  could  derive  from  the  cheerful 
Harold. 

Next  morning  his  breakfast  was  hardly  over  when  an 
orderly  came  in.  Harold  had  been  earlier  than  usual,  and 
had  finished  and  gone  out.  "Captain  Graham,  sir?"  queried 
the  man.  "Captain  Harold's  compliments,  and  a  telephone 
message  has  just  come  in  that  you  are  to  report  to  H.Q. 
lOth  Group  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Peter  brushed  himself  up,  and  outwardly  cheerful  but 
inwardly  quaking,  set  off.  Half  an  hour's  walk  brought  him 
to  the  place,  a  little  office  near  a  wharf  in  a  tangle  of  trolley 
lines.    He  knocked,  went  in,  came  to  attention,  and  saluted. 

Colonel  Lear  was  a  short,  red-faced,  boorish  fellow,  and 
his  Adjutant  sat  beside  him  at  the  desk,  for  the  Colonel  was 
not  particularly  well  up  in  his  job.  The  Adjutant  was  tall, 
slightly  bald,  and  fat-faced,  and  he  leaned  back  throughout 
the    interview    with    an    air    of    sneering    boredom,    only 


78  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

vouchsafing  laconic  replies  to  his  superior's  occasional  ques- 
tions. Peter  didn't  know  which  he  haled  the  more ;  but  he 
concluded  that  whereas  he  would  like  to  cut  the  Colonel  in 
Regent  Street,  he  would  enjoy  shooting  the  Adjutant. 

"Ah!"  said  the  Colonel.  "Are  you  Captain  Graham? 
Well,  .sir,  what's  the  meaning  of  this?  You  applied  for  a 
movement  order,  and  one  was  sent  you,  and  you  did  not 
report  at  the  station.  You  damned  padres  think  you  can  do 
any  bally  thing  you  choose !  Out  here  for  a  picnic,  I  suppose. 
What  is  the  meaning  of  it?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Peter,  "I  waited  ten  days  for  the  order 
and  it  did  not  come.  At  last  I  went  out  for  the  afternoon, 
and  got  back  too  late  to  execute  it.  Pm  very  sorry,  but  can't 
I  go  lo-day  instead  ?" 

"Good  God,  sir !  do  you  think  the  whole  British  Army  is 
arranged  for  your  benefit?  Do  you  think  nobody  has  any- 
thing else  to  do  except  to  arrange  things  to  suit  your  con- 
venience? We  haven't  got  troopers  with  Pullman  cars  every 
day  for  the  advantage  of  you  chaplains,  though  I  supjwse 
you  think  we  ought  to  have.  Supposing  you  did  have  to 
wait,  what  about  it  ?  What  else  have  you  to  do?  You'd  have 
waited  fast  enough  if  it  was  an  order  to  go  on  leave;  that's 
about  all  you  parsons  think  about.  /  don't  know  what  you 
can  do.     What  had  he  better  do,  Mallony?" 

The  Adjutant  leaned  forward  leisurely,  surveying  Peter 
coolly. 

"Probably  he'd  better  report  to  the  R.T.O.,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  very  well.  It  won't  be  any  good,  though.  Go  up 
to  the  R.T.O.  and  ask  him  what  you  can  do.  Here's  the 
order."  (He  threw  it  across  the  table,  and  Peter  picked  it 
up,  noting  miserably  the  blue  legend,  "Failed  to  Report — • 
R.T.O.,  Gare  du  Vert.")  "But  don't  apply  to  this  office 
again.  Haven't  you  got  a  blessed  department  to  do  your  own 
damned  dirty  work?" 

"The  A.C.G.'s  away,  sir,"  said  Peter, 

"On  leave,  I  suppose.  Wish  to  God  I  were  a  padre,  eh, 
Malloney?    Always  on  leave  or  in  Paris,  and  doin'  nothing 


* 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  79 


in  between.  .  .  Got  those  returns,  sergeant?  .  .  .  What 
in  hell  are  you  waiting  for,  padre?" 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Peter  had  an  idea  of  what 
seeing  red  really  means.  But  he  mastered  it  by  an  effort, 
saluted  without  a  word,  and  passed  out. 

In  a  confused  whirl  he  set  off  for  the  R.T.O.,  and  with 
a  sinking  Heart  reached  the  station,  crowded  with  French 
peasantry,  who  had  apparently  come  for  the  day  to  wait  for 
the  train.  P>ig  notices  made  it  impossible  to  miss  the  Railway 
Transport  Officer.  He  passed  down  a  passage  and  into  an 
office.  He  loathed  and  hated  the  whole  wide  world  as  he 
went  in. 

A  young  man,  smoking  a  cigarette  and  reading  a  magazine, 
glanced  up  at  him.  Peter  observed  in  time  that  he  had  two 
stars  only  on  his  shoulder-strap.  Before  he  could  speak, 
the  other  said  cheerily:  "Well,  padre,  and  what  can  I  do 
for  you?" 

Peter  deprecatingly  told  him.  He  had  waited  ten  days, 
etc.,  and  had  at  last  gone  out,  and  the  movement  order  had 
come  with  .  .  . 

The  other  cut  him  short :  "Oh,  you're  the  chap  who  failed 
to  report,  are  you  ?  Blighted  rotters  they  are  at  these  Group 
H.Q.'s.    Chuck  us  over  the  chit." 

Peter  brightened  up  and  obeyed.  The  other  read  it.  "I 
know,"  ventured  Peter,  "but  I  got  the  dickens  of  a  strafe 
from  the  Colonel.  He  said  he  had  no  idea  when  I  could  get 
qway,  and  had  better  see  you.    What  can  I  do?" 

"Silly  old  ass !  You'd  better  go  to-night.  There  are  plenty 
of  trains,  and  you're  all  alone,  aren't  you?  I  might  just 
alter  the  date,  but  I  suppose  now  you  had  better  go  to  his 
nibs  the  Deputy  Assistant  Officer  controlling  Transport.  He's 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Republique,  No.  153;  you  can  find  it  easily 
enough.  Tell  him  I  sent  you.  He'll  probably  make  you  out 
a  new  order." 

Peter  felt  enormously  relieved.  He  relaxed,  smiled,  and 
got  out  a  cigarette,  offering  the  other  one.  "Beastly  lot  of 
fuss  they  make  over  nothing,  these  chaps,"  he  said. 


80  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"I  know,"  said  the  R.T.O. ;  "but  they're  paid  for  it,  my 
boy,  and  probably  your  old  dear  had  been  strafed  himself 
this  morning.  Well,  cheerio ;  see  you  again  to-night.  Come 
in  time,  and  I'll  get  you  a  decent  place." 

The  great  man's  office  was  up  two  flights  of  wooden  stairs 
in  what  looked  like  a  deserted  house.  But  Peter  mounted 
them  with  an  easy  mind.  He  had  forgiven  Ix-ar,  and  the 
world  smiled.    He  still  didn't  realise  he  was  acting  in  Punch. 

Outside  a  suitably  labelled  door  he  stood  a  moment,  listen- 
ing to  a  well-bred  voice  drawling  out  sarcastic  orders  to  some 
unfortunate.  Then  with  a  smile  he  entered.  A  Major  looked 
up  at  him,  and  heard  his  story  without  a  word.  Peter  got 
less  buoyant  as  lie  proceeded,  and  towards  the  end  he  waa 
rather  lame.  A  silence  followed.  The  great  man  scrutinised 
the  order.  "Where  were  you?"  he  demanded  at  last, 
abruptly. 

It  was  an  awkward  (juestion.  Peter  hedged.  "The  O.C. 
of  my  camp  a^ked  me  to  go  out  with  him,"  he  said  at  last, 
feebly. 

The  other  picked  up  a  blue  pencil  and  scrawled  further 
on  the  oriler.  "We've  had  too  much  of  this  lately,"  he  said 
icily.  "Oflicers  appear  to  think  they  can  travel  when  and 
how  they  please.  Vou  will  rejwrt  to  the  D.A.CJ.M.G.  at 
Hcadciuarters,  3rd  ICchclon."  He  handed  the  folded  order 
back,  and  the  miserable  Peter  had  a  notion  that  he  meant  to 
add:  "And  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul." 

He  ventured  a  futile  remonstrance.  "The  R.T.O.  said  you 
could  perhaps  alter  the  date." 

The  Major  leaned  back  and  regarded  him  in  silence  as  a 
remarkable  phenomenon  such  as  had  not  previously  come  his 
way.  Then  he  sighed,  and  picked  up  a  pen.  "Good-morn- 
ing." he  said. 

Peter,  in  the  street,  contemplated  many  things,  including 
suicide.  If  Colonel  Chichester  had  been  in  Rouen  he  would 
have  gone  there ;  as  it  was,  he  did  not  dare  to  face  that 
unknown  any  more  than  this  other.     In  the  end  he  set  out 


^   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  8i 

slowly  for  H.Q.,  was  saluted  by  the  sentry  under  the  flag, 
climbed  up  to  a  corridor  with  many  strangely  labelled  doors, 
and  fmally  entered  the  right  one,  to  find  himself  in  a  big 
room  in  which  half  a  dozen  men  in  uniform  were  engaged 
at  as  many  desks  with  orderlies  moving  between  them.  A 
kind  of  counter  barred  his  farther  passage.  He  stood  at  it 
forlornly  for  a  few  minutes. 

At  last  an  orderly  came  to  him,  and  he  shortly  explained 
his  presence  and  handeil  in  the  much-blued  order.  The  man 
listened  in  silence,  asked  him  to  wait  a  moment,  and  dc[^arted. 
Peter  leaned  on  the  counter  and  trieil  to  look  indiitercnt. 
With  a  detached  air  he  studied  the  Kirschner  girls  on  the 
walls.  These  added  a  certain  air  to  the  otlierwise  forlorn 
place,  but  when,  a  little  later,  W.A.A.C.'s  were  installed,  a 
paternal  Government  ordered  their  removal.  But  that  then 
mattered  no  longer  to  Peter. 

At  the  last  the  orderly  came  back.  "Will  you  please  follow 
me,  sir?"  he  said. 

Peter  was  led  round  tlie  barrier  like  a  sheep  to  execution, 
and  in  at  a  small  door.  He  espied  a  General  Officer  at  a  desk 
by  the  window,  telephone  receiver  in  one  hand,  the  fateful 
order  in  the  other.  He  saluted.  The  other  nodded.  Peter 
waited. 

"Ah,  yes!  D.A.Q.M.G.  speaking.  That  loth  Group 
Headcjuarters  ?  Oh  yes ;  good-morning,  Mallony.  About 
Captain  Graham's  movement  order.  When  was  this  order 
applied  for  at  your  end?  .  .  .  What?  Eighteenth? 
Humph!  What  time  did  your  office  receive  it?  .  .  .  Eh? 
Ten  a.m.?  Then,  sir,  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  was 
doing  in  your  office  till  six  p.m.  This  officer  did  not  receive 
it  till  six-thirty.  What?  He  was  out?  Yes,  very  likely, 
but  it  reached  his  mess  at  six-thirty :  it  is  so  endorsed.  .  .  . 
Colonel  Lear  has  had  the  matter  under  consideration  ?  Good. 
Kindly  ask  Colonel  Lear  to  come  to  the  telephone." 

He  leaned  back,  and  glanced  up  at  Graham,  taking  him 
in  witli  a  grave  smile.     "I  understand  you  waited  ten  days 


82  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

for  this,  Captain  Graham,"  he  said.  "It's  disgraceful  that  it 
should  happen.  I  am  glad  to  have  had  an  instance  brought 
before  me,  as  we  have  had  too  many  cases  of  this  sort  of 
thing  lately.  .  .  ."  He  broke  olT.  "Yes?  Colonel  Lear? 
Ah,  good-morning.  Colonel  Lear.  This  case  of  the  movement 
order  of  Captain  Graham  has  just  been  brought  to  me.  This 
officer  was  kept  waiting  ten  days  for  his  order,  and  then 
given  an  imix)ssibly  short  time  to  reix)rt.  Well,  it  won't  do. 
Colonel.  There  must  be  something  very  wrong  in  your 
orderly-room ;  kindly  see  to  it.  Chaplains  have  other  things 
to  do  than  sit  around  in  camps  waiting  the  convenience  of 
Group  Ilcadcjuarters.  The  application  for  this  order  reached 
us  on  the  27th,  and  was  sent  off  early  next  morning,  in 
ample  time  for  the  officer  to  travel.  1  am  very  displeased 
about  it.  You  will  kindly  apply  at  once  for  a  fresh  order, 
and  see  that  it  is  in  Captain  Graham's  hands  at  least  six  hours 
before  he  must  report.    That  is  all.    Good-morning." 

Peter  could  hardly  believe  his  ears,  but  he  could  barely 
keep  a  straight  face  either.  The  D.A.Q.M.G.  hung  up  the 
receiver  and  repeated  the  latter  part  of  the  message.  Peter 
thanked  him  and  dei)arted,  walking  on  air.  A  day  later  an 
orderly  from  the  group  informed  him  at  11  a.m.  that  the 
order  had  been  applied  for  and  might  be  expected  that  day, 
and  at  i  o'clock  he  received  it.  Such  is  the  humour  of  the 
high  gods  who  control  the  British  Army.  But  he  never  saw 
Colonel  Lear  again,  and  was  thankful. 

Peter  reached  his  new  base,  then,  early  in  March  in  a 
drizzle  of  rain.  He  was  told  his  camp  and  set  off  to  find 
it,  and  for  an  hour  walked  through  endless  docks,  over 
innumerable  bridges,  several  of  which,  being  open  to  admit 
and  let  out  ships,  caused  him  pretty  considerable  delay.  It 
was  a  strange,  new  experience.  The  docks  presented  types 
of  nearly  every  conceivable  nationality  and  of  every  sort  of 
shipping.  French  marines  and  seamen  were,  of  course, 
everywhere,  but  so  were  Chinese,  South  African  natives, 
Egyptians,  Senegalese,  types  of  all  European  nationalities, 
a  few  of  the  first  clean,  efficient-looking  Americans  in  tight- 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  83 

fitting  uniforms,  and  individual  officers  of  a  score  of  regi- 
ments. 

The  old  town  ended  in  a  row  of  high,  disreputable-looking 
houses  that  were,  however,  picturesque  enough,  and  across 
the  paz'e  in  front  of  them  commenced  the  docks.  One 
walked  in  and  out  of  harbours  and  waterways,  the  main 
stretch  of  harbour  opening  up  more  and  more  on  the  right 
hand,  and  fmally  showing  two  great  encircling  arms  that 
nearly  met,  and  the  grey  Channel  beyond.  Tossing  at  anchor 
outside  were  more  than  a  dozen  ships,  waiting  for  dark  to 
attempt  the  crossing.  As  he  went,  a  seaplane  came  humming 
in  from  the  mists,  circled  the  old  town,  and  took  the  harbour 
water  in  a  slither  of  foam.  He  had  to  wait  while  a  big 
Argentine  ship  ploughed  slowly  in  up  a  narrow  channel,  and 
then,  in  the  late  afternoon,  crossed  a  narrow  swing  foot- 
bridge, and  found  himself  on  the  main  outer  sea-wall. 

Following  directions,  he  turned  to  the  right  and  walked 
as  if  going  out  to  the  harbour  mouth  a  mile  or  so  ahead.  It 
seemed  impossible  that  his  camp  should  be  here,  for  on  the 
one  hand  he  was  close  to  the  harbour,  and  on  the  other,  over 
a  high  wall  and  some  buildings,  was  plainly  to  be  espied  the 
sea.  A  few  hundred  yards  on,  however,  a  crowd  of  Tommies 
were  lined  up  and  passing  embarkation  officers  for  a  big 
trooper,  and  Peter  concluded  that  this  was  the  leave  boat  by 
which  he  was  to  mark  his  camp  across  the  road  and  more  or 
less  beyond  it. 

He  crossed  a  railway-line,  went  in  at  a  gate,  and  was  there. 

The  officers'  quarters  had  a  certain  fascination.  You 
stepped  out  of  the  anteroom  and  found  yourself  on  a  raised 
concrete  platform  at  the  back  of  which  washed  the  sea.  Very 
extensive  harbour  works,  half  completed,  ran  farther  out  in 
a  great  semicircle  across  a  wide  space  of  leaden  water,  over 
which  gulls  were  circling  and  crying ;  but  the  thin  black  line 
of  this  wall  hardly  interrupted  one's  sense  of  looking  straight 
out  to  sea,  and  its  wide  mouth  away  on  the  right  let  in  the 
real  invigorating,  sea-smelling  wind.  The  camp  itself  was 
a  mere  strip  between  the  railway-line  and  the  water,  a  camp 


84  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

of  R.E.'s  to  whicli  he  was  atiached.  He  was  also  to  work  a 
hospital  which  was  said  to  be  close  by. 

It  was  ix)inted  out  to  him  later.  The  railway  ran  out  all 
but  to  the  harlx)ur  mouth,  and  there  ended  in  a  great  covered, 
wide  station.  Above  it,  large  and  airy,  wiih  extensive 
verandahs  jiarallcl  to  the  harlxjur,  was  the  old  Customs,  and 
it  was  this  that  had  been  transformed  into  a  hospital.  It 
was  an  admirable  place.  The  Red  Cross  trains  ran  in  below, 
and  the  men  could  be  quickly  swung  up  into  the  cool,  clean 
wards  above.  These,  all  on  one  level,  had  great  glass  doors 
giving  access  to  tlie  verandahs,  and  from  the  verandahs  broad 
gangways  could  he  placed,  running  men,  at  high  tide,  on  to 
the  hospital  ship  .'  !c.     The  nurses'  quarters  were  be- 

yond, and  their  sit.,.  ,  .v-om  was  perched  up,  as  it  were,  sea 
on  one  side  and  harbour  on  the  other. 

At  prtM-tJt,  of  course,  Peter  did  not  know  all  this.  He 
was  merely  conducted  by  an  orderly  in  the  dusk  to  llie 
anteroom  of  the  mess,  and  welcomed  by  the  orderly-ofticer, 
who  led  him  into  a  comfortable  room  already  lit,  in  a  corner 
of  which,  near  a  stove,  four  ofTicers  snt  at  cards. 

"Hearts  three,"  said  one  as  Peter  came  in. 

"Pass  me,"  said  another,  and  it  struck  Peter  that  he  knew 
the  tone. 

The  four  were  fairly  absorbed  in  their  game,  but  the 
orderly  oflicer  led  Peter  towards  the  table.  At  that  they 
looked  up,  and  next  minute  one  had  jumped  up  and  was 
greeting  him. 

"By  all  that's  wt)nderful!     It's  you  again,"  he  said. 

"Donovan!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "What  arc  you  doing 
here?" 

The  South  African  held  out  his  hand.  "I've  got  attached 
to  one  of  our  nigger  outtits,"  he  said,  "just  up  the  dock  from 
here.     But  what  are  you  doing?" 

"Oh,  I've  been  moved  from  Rouen."  said  Peter,  "and 
told  to  join  up  here.  Got  to  look  after  the  hospital  and  a  few 
camps.    And  I  was  told,"  he  added,  "I'd  live  in  this  camp." 


'     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  85 

"Good  cnougli,"  said  Donovan.  "Let  me  introduce  you. 
This  is  Lieutenant  Pennell,  R.E. — Lieutenant  Pennell,  Capn 
tain  Graham.  This  is  a  bird  of  your  kidney,  mess  secretary 
and  a  great  man,  Padre  Arnold,  and  this  is  one  Ferrars, 
Austrahan  Infantry.  He  tried  to  stop  a  shell,"  went  on 
Donovan  easily,  "and  is  now  recovering.  The  shock  left  him 
a  little  insafic,  or  so  his  best  friends  think ;  hence,  as  you  may 
have  heard,  he  has  juit  gone  three  hearts.  And  that's  all 
anyone  can  do  at  present,  padre,  so  have  a  cigarette  and  sit 
down.  I  hope  you  haven't  changed  your  old  habits,  as  you 
are  just  in  time  for  a  sun-duwncr.    Orderly  !" 

He  pulled  up  a  large  easy -chair,  and  Peter  subsided  into 
it  with  a  {jleasant  feeling  of  welcome.  He  remembered,  now, 
having  heard  that  Donovan  was  at  Havre,  but  it  was  none 
the  less  a  surprise  to  meet  him. 

Donovan  played  a  gootl  hand  when  he  liked,  but  when  he 
was  not  meeting  his  mettle,  or  i)erhaps  when  the  conditions 
were  not  serious  enough,  he  usually  kept  up  a  diverting, 
unorthodox  run  of  talk  the  whole  time.  Peter  listened  and 
took  in  his  surroundings  lazily.  "Come  on,"  said  his  friend, 
playing  a  queen.  "Shove  on  your  king,  Pennell;  everyone 
knows  you've  got  him.  What?  Hiding  the  old  gentleman, 
are  you?  Why,  sure  it's  myself  has  him  all  the  time" — 
gathering  up  the  trick  and  leading  the  king.  "Perhaps  some- 
body's holding  up  the  ace  now  .  .  ."  and  so  on. 

Pennell  played  well  too,  but  very  differently.  He  was 
usually  bored  with  his  luck  or  the  circumstances,  and  until 
you  got  to  know  him  you  were  inclined  to  think  he  was  bored 
with  you.  He  was  a  young-looking  man  of  thirty-five, 
rather  good-looking,  an  engineer  in  peace-time  who  had 
knocked  about  the  world  a  good  deal,  but  hardly  gave  you  that 
impression.  The  Australian  played  poorly.  With  curly  dark 
hair  and  a  perpetual  pipe,  his  face  was  almost  sullen  in 
repose,  but  it  lit  up  eagerly  enough  at  any  chance  excitement. 
Arnold  was  easily  the  eldest,  a  short  man  with  iron-grey  hair 
and  very  kindly  eyes,  a  man  master  of  himself  and  his  dr- 


86  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

cumstances.  Peter  watched  him  eagerly.  He  was  likely  to 
see  a  good  deal  of  him,  he  thought,  and  he  was  glad  there 
would  be  a  padre  as  well  in  camp. 

Donovan  and  Ferrars  won  the  game  and  so  the  rubber 
easily,  and  the  former  pushed  his  chair  back  from  the  table. 
"That's  enough  for  me,  boys,"  he  said.  "I  must  trek  in  a 
minute.  Well,  padre,  and  what  do  you  think  of  the  Army 
now : 

"Mixed  biscuits  rather,"  Peter  said.  "But  I  had  a  rum 
experience  getting  here.  You  wouldn't  have  thought  it  pos- 
sible," and  he  related  the  story  of  the  movement  order.  At 
the  close,  Pennell  nodded  gloomily.  "Pack  of  fools  they 
are !"  he  said.  "Hardly  one  of  them  knows  his  job.  You  can 
thank  your  lucky  stars  that  the  D..\.Q.M.G.  had  a  down  on 
that  Colonel  What's-his-name.  or  it  would  have  taken  you 
another  month  to  get  here,  probably— ch,  Donovan?" 

"That's  so,  old  dear,"  said  that  worthy.  "But  Pm  hanged 
if  Pd  have  cared.    Some  place,  Rouen,     Better'n  this  hole." 

"Well,  at  Rouen  they  said  this  was  better,"  said  Peter. 

Arnold  laughed.  "That's  the  way  of  the  Army,"  he  said. 
"It's  all  much  the  same,  but  you  would  have  to  go  far  to 
beat  this  camp." 

Pennell  agreed.  "You're  right  there,  padre,"  he  said. 
"This  is  as  neat  a  hole  as  I've  struck.  If  you  know  the  road," 
he  went  on  to  Peter,  "you  can  slip  into  town  in  twenty-five 
minutes  or  so,  and  we're  much  better  placed  than  most  camps. 
There's  no  mud  and  cinders  here,  is  there,  Donovan?  His 
camp's  built  on  cinders,"  he  added. 

"There  are  not,"  said  that  worthy,  rising.  "And  you're 
very  convenient  to  the  hospital  here,  padre.  You  better  get 
Arnold  to  show  you  round ;  he's  a  dog  with  the  nurses." 

"What  about  the  acting  matron.  No.  i  Base?"  demanded 
Arnold.  "He  has  tea  there  every  Sunday,"  he  explained  to 
Peter,  "and  he  a  married  man,  too." 

"It's  time  I  went."  said  Donovan,  laughing ;  "all  the  same, 
there's  a  concert  on  Tuesday  in  next  week,  a  good  one    1 


•     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  87 

believe,  and  I've  promised  to  go  and  take  some  people. 
Who'll  come?     Penncll,  will  you?" 

"Not  this  child,  thanks.  Too  many  nurses,  too  much  tea, 
and  too  much  talk  for  me.  Now,  if  you  would  pick  me  out 
a  pretty  one  and  fix  up  a  little  dinner  in  town,  I'm  your  man, 
old  hean." 

"Well,  that  might  be  managed.  It's  time  we  had  a  flutter 
of  some  sort.  I'll  see.  What  about  you,  Graham?  You 
game  to  try  the  hospital  ?  You'll  have  to  get  to  know  the 
ropes  of  them  all,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  said  Peter— "if  I  can,  that  is."  He  looked 
inquiringly  at  Arnold. 

"Oh,  your  time  is  more  or  less  your  own,"  he  replied — "at 
least,  it  is  our  side  of  the  house.    Are  you  C.G.  or  P.C.?" 

"Good  God,  padre!"  said  the  Australian,  getting  up  too, 
"what  in  the  world  do  you  mean?" 

"Chaplain-General's  Department  or  Principal  Chaplain's 
Department,  Church  of  England  or  Nonconformist.  And  it's 
sixpence  a  swear  in  this  mess."    Arnold  held  out  a  hand. 

Donovan  caught  his  friend  by  the  arm.  "Come  on  out  of 
it,"  he  said.  "You  won't  get  back  in  time  if  you  don't.  The 
padre's  a  good  sort ;  you  needn't  mind  him.  So  long  every- 
body.   Keep  Tuesday  clear,  Graham.     I'll  call  for  you." 

"Well,  I'd  better  fix  you  up,  Graham,"  said  Arnold.  "For 
my  sins  I'm  mess  secretary,  and  as  the  president's  out  and 
likely  to  be,  I'll  find  a  place  for  you." 

He  led  Peter  into  the  passage,  and  consulted  a  board  on 
the  wall.  "I'd  like  to  put  you  next  me,  but  I  can't,"  he  said. 
"Both  sides  occupied.  Wait  a  minute.  No.  10  Pennell,  and 
No.  ii's  free.  How  would  you  like  that?  Pennell,"  he 
called  through  the  open  door,  "what's  the  next  room  to  yours 
like  ?     Light  all  right  ?" 

"Quite  decent,"  said  Pennell,  coming  to  the  door.  "Going 
to  put  him  there,  padre  ?  Let's  go  and  see."  Then  the  three 
went  off  together  down  the  passage. 

The  little  room  was  bare,  except  for  a  table  under  the 


88  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

window.  Arnold  opened  it,  and  Peter  saw  he  looked  out 
over  the  sea.  Pennell  switched  on  the  light  and  found  it 
working  correctly,  and  then  sauntered  across  the  couple  of 
yards  or  so  of  the  cubicle's  width  to  look  at  the  remains  of 
some  coloured  pictures  pasted  on  the  wooden  partition. 

"Last  man's  made  a  little  collection  from  La  Vic  Parisienne 
for  you,  padre,"  he  said.  "Not  a  very  bright  selection,  either. 
You'll  have  to  cover  them  up,  or  it'll  never  do  to  bring  your 
A.C.G.  or  A.P.C.,  or  whatever  he  is,  in  here.  What  a  life!" 
he  added,  regarding  them.  "They  are  a  queer  people,  the 
French.  .  .  .    Well,  is  this  going  to  do?" 

Graham  glanced  at  Arnold.  "Very  well,"  he  said,  "if  it's 
all  right  for  me  to  have  it." 

"Quite  all  right,"  said  Arnold.  "Remember,  Pennell  is 
nextdoor  left,  so  keep  him  in  order.  Nextdoor  right  is  the 
English  Channel,  more  or  less.  Now,  what  about  your 
traps  ?" 

"I  left  them  outside  the  orderly-room,"  said  Peter,  "except 
for  some  that  a  porter  was  to  bring  up.  Perhaps  they'll  be 
here  by  now.    Pve  got  a  stretcher  and  so  on." 

"Ell  go  and  see,"  said  Pennell,  "and  Ell  put  my  man  on 
to  get  you  straight,  as  you  haven't  a  batman  yet."  And  he 
strolled  off. 

"Come  to  my  room  a  minute,"  said  Arnold,  and  Petef 
followed  him. 

Arnold's  room  was  littered  with  stuff.  The  table  was 
spread  with  mess  accounts,  and  the  corners  of  the  little  place 
were  stacked  up  with  a  gramophone,  hymn-books,  lantern- 
slides,  footballs,  boxing-gloves,  and  such-like.  The  chairs 
were  both  littered,  but  Arnold  cleared  one  by  the  simple 
expedient  of  piling  all  its  contents  on  the  other,  and  motioned 
his  visitor  to  sit  down.  "Have  a  pipe?"  he  asked,  holding  out 
bis  pouch. 

Peter  thanked  him,  filled  and  handed  it  back,  then  lit  his 
pipe,  and  glanced  curiously  round  the  room  as  he  drew  on  it. 
"You're  prettj-  full  up,"  he  said. 


^      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  89 

"Fairly,"  said  the  other.  "There's  a  Y.IM.C.A.  here,  and 
I  run  it  more  or  less,  and  Tommy  likes  variety.  He's  a  fine 
chap,  Tommy;  don't  you  think  so?" 

Peter  hesitated  a  second,  and  the  other  glanced  at  him 
shrewdly. 

"Perhaps  you  haven't  been  out  long  enough,"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Peter.  "Not  but  what  I  do  like  him. 
He's  a  cheerful  creature  for  all  his  grousing,  and  has  sterling 
good  stuff  in  him.  But  religiously  I  don't  get  on  far.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I'm  awfully  worried  about  it." 

The  elder  man  nodded.  "I  guess  I  know,  lad,"  he  said. 
"See  here.  I'm  Presbyterian  and  I  reckon  you  are  Anglican, 
but  I  expect  we're  up  against  much  the  same  sort  of  thing. 
Don't  worry  too  much.  Do  your  job  and  talk  straight,  and 
the  men  '11  listen  more  than  you  think." 

"But  I  don't  think  I  know  what  to  tell  them,"  said  Peter 
miserably,  but  drawn  out  by  the  other. 

Arnold  smiled.  "The  Prayer  Book's  not  much  use  here, 
eh?  But  forgive  me;  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude.  I  know 
what  you  mean.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  this  war  is 
what  we  padres  have  been  needing.  It'll  help  us  to  find  our 
feet.  Only — this  is  honest — if  you  don't  take  care  you  may 
lose  them.  I  have  to  keep  a  tight  hold  of  that" — and  he  laid 
his  hand  on  a  big  Bible — "to  mind  my  own." 

Peter  did  not  reply  for  a  minute.  He  could  not  talk  easily 
to  a  stranger.  But  at  last  he  said :  "Yes ;  but  it  doesn't  seem 
to  me  to  fit  the  case.  IMen  are  diflferent.  Times  are  different. 
The  New  Testament  people  took  certain  things  for  granted, 
and  even  if  they  disagreed,  they  always  had  a  common  basis 
with  the  Apostles.  Men  out  here  seem  to  me  to  talk  a  differ- 
ent language :  you  don't  know  where  to  begin.  It  seems  to 
me  that  they  have  long  ago  ceased  to  believe  in  the  authority 
of  anyone  or  anjthing  in  religion,  and  now  to-day  they 
actually  deny  our  very  commonplaces.  But  I  don't  know 
how  to  put  it,"  he  added  lamely. 

Arnold  puffed  silently  for  a  little.    Then  he  took  his  pipe 


90  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

out  of  his  mouth  and  regarded  it  critically.  "God's  in  the 
soul  of  every  man  still,"  he  said.  "They  can  still  hear  Him 
speak,  and  speak  there.    And  so  must  we  too,  Graham." 

Peter  said  nothing.  In  a  minute  or  so  steps  sounded  in  the 
passage,  and  Arnold  looked  up  quickly.  "Maybe,"  he  said, 
"our  ordinary  life  prevented  us  hearing  God  very  plainly 
ourselves,  Graham,  and  maybe  He  has  sent  us  here  for  that 
purpose.  I  hope  so.  I've  wondered  lately  if  we  haven't  coi.*e 
to  the  kingdom  for  such  a  time  as  this." 

Pennell  pushed  tlie  door  open,  and  looked  in.  "You  there, 
Graham?"  he  asked.  "Oh,  I  thought  I'd  find  him  here, 
padre ;  his  stuff's  come." 

Peter  got  up.  "Excuse  me,  Arnold,"  he  said;  "I  must 
shake  in.  But  I'm  jolly  glad  you  said  what  you  did,  and  I 
hope  you'll  say  it  again,  and  some  more." 

The  older  man  smiled  an  answer,  and  the  door  closed. 
Then  he  sighed  a  little,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  again  for 
the  Bible. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  great  central  ward  at  No.  i  Base  Hospital  looked 
as  gay  as  possible.  In  the  centre  a  Guard's  band  sat 
among  palms  and  ferns,  and  an  extemporised  stage,  draped 
with  flags,  was  behind,  with  wings  constructed  of  Japanese- 
figured  material.  Pretty  well  all  round  were  the  beds, 
although  many  of  them  had  been  moved  up  into  a  central 
position,  and  there  was  a  space  for  chairs  and  forms.  The 
green-room  had  to  be  outside  the  ward,  and  the  performers, 
therefore,  came  and  went  in  the  public  gaze.  But  it  was  not 
a  critical  public,  and  the  men,  with  a  plenitude  of  cigarettes, 
did  not  object  to  pauses.  On  the  whole,  they  were  extraordi- 
narily quiet  and  passive.  Modern  science  has  made  the 
batdefield  a  hell,  but  it  has  also  made  the  base  hospital  some- 
thing approaching  a  Paradise. 

There  were  women  in  plenty.  The  staff  had  been  aug- 
mented by  visitors  from  most  of  the  other  hospitals  in  the 
town,  and  there  was  a  fair  sprinkling  of  W.A.A.C.'s, 
Y.M.C.A.  workers,  and  so  on,  in  addition.  Jack  Donovan 
and  Peter  were  a  little  late,  and  arrived  at  the  time  an  ex- 
ceedingly popular  subaltern  was  holding  the  stage  amid  roars 
of  laughter.  They  stood  outside  one  of  the  many  glass  doors 
and  peered  in. 

Once  inside,  one  had  to  make  one's  way  among  beds  and 
chairs,  and  the  nature  of  things  brought  one  into  rather  more 
than  the  usual  share  of  late-comers'  scrutiny,  but  nothing 
could  abash  Donovan.  He  spotted  at  once  a  handsome 
woman  in  nurse's  indoor  staff  uniform,  and  made  for  her. 
She,  with  two  others,  was  sitting  on  an  empty  bed,  and  she 
promptly  made  room  for  Donovan.  Graham  was  introduced, 
and  a  quiet  girl  moved  up  a  bit  for  him  to  sit  down;  but 

01 


93  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

there  was  not  much  room,  and  the  girl  would  not  talk,  so 
that  he  sat  uncomfortably  and  looked  about  him,  listening 
with  one  ear  to  the  fire  of  chaff  on  his  right.  Donovan  was 
irrepressible.  His  laugh  and  voice,  and  tlic  fact  that  he  was 
talking  to  a  hospital  personage,  attracted  a  certain  amount  of 
attention.  Peter  tried  to  smile,  but  he  felt  out  of  it  and 
observed.  He  stared  up  towards  the  band,  which  was  just 
striking  up  again. 

Suddenly  he  became  conscious,  as  one  will,  that  someone 
was  particularly  looking  at  him.  He  glanced  back  over  the 
chairs,  and  met  a  pair  of  eyes,  roguish,  laughing,  and  unques- 
tionably fixed  upon  him.  The  moment  he  saw  them,  their 
owner  nodded  and  tclegraj)hcd  an  obvious  invitation.  Peter 
glanced  at  Donovan :  he  had  not  apparently  seen.  He  looked 
back;  the  eyes  called  him  again.  He  felt  himself  getting  hot, 
for,  despite  the  fact  that  he  had  a  kind  of  feeling  that  he  had 
seen  those  eyes  before,  he  was  perfectly  certain  he  did  not 
know  tlie  girl.  Perhaps  she  had  made  a  mistake.  He  turned 
resolutely  to  his  companion. 

"Jolly  good  band,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  replied. 

"But  I  suppose  at  a  hospital  like  this  you're  always  hearing 
decent  music?"  he  ventured. 

"Not  so  often,"  slic  said. 

"This  band  is  just  back  from  touring  the  front,  isn't  it? 
My  friend  said  something  to  that  effect." 

"I  believe  so,"  she  said. 

Peter  could  have  cursed  her.  It  was  impossible  to  get 
an>'thing  out  of  her,  though  why  he  had  not  a  notion.  The 
answer  was  really  simple,  for  she  wanted  to  be  next  Donovan, 
and  wasn't,  and  she  was  all  the  while  scheming  how  to  get 
there.  But  Peter  did  not  tumble  to  that ;  he  felt  an  ass  and 
very  uncomfortable,  and  he  broke  into  open  revolt. 

He  looked  steadily  towards  the  chairs.  The  back  of  the 
girl  who  had  looked  at  him  was  towards  him  now,  for  she 
was  talking  sideways  to  somebody ;  but  he  noted  an  empty 


SIMON  CALLED  PETEK  93 

chair  just  next  her,  and  that  her  uniform  was  not  that  of  the 
nurses  of  this  hospital.  He  felt  confident  that  she  would 
look  again,  and  he  was  not  disappointed.  Instantly  he  made 
up  his  mind,  nodded,  and  reached  for  his  cap.  "I  see  a  girl 
I  know  over  there,"  he  said  to  his  neighbour.  "Excuse  me, 
will  you?"  Then  he  got  up  and  walked  boldly  over  to  the 
vacant  chair.    He  was  fast  acclimatising  to  war  conditions. 

He  sat  down  on  that  empty  chair  and  met  the  girl's  eyes 
fairly.  She  was  entirely  at  her  ease  and  laughing  merrily. 
"I've  lost  my  bet,"  she  said,"  and  Tommy's  won." 

"And  you've  made  me  tell  a  thundering  lie,"  he  replied, 
laughing  too,  "which  you  know  is  the  first  step  towards  losing 
one's  soul.    Therefore  you  deserve  your  share  in  the  loss." 

"Why?     What  did  you  say?"  she  demanded. 

"I  said  I  saw  a  girl  I  knew,"  he  replied.  "But  I  haven't 
any  idea  who  you  are,  though  I  can't  help  feeling  I've  seen 
you  before." 

She  chuckled  with  amusement,  and  turned  to  her  com- 
panion.    "He  doesn't  remember.  Tommy,"  she  said. 

The  second  girl  looked  past  her  to  Peter.  "I  should  think 
not,"  she  said.  "Nobody  would.  But  he'll  probably  say  in 
two  minutes  that  he  does.    You're  perfectly  shameless,  Julie." 

Julie  swung  round  to  Peter.  "You're  a  beast.  Tommy," 
she  said  over  her  shoulder,  "and  I  shan't  speak  to  you  again. 
You  see,"  she  went  on  to  Peter,  "I  could  see  you  had  struck 
a  footling  girl,  and  as  I  don't  know  a  single  decent  boy  here, 
I  thought  I'd  presume  on  an  acquaintance,  and  see  if  it 
wasn't  a  lucky  one.  We've  got  to  know  each  other,  you 
know.  The  girl  with  me  on  the  boat — oh,  damn,  I've  told 
you ! — and  I  am  swearing,  and  you're  a  parson,  but  it  can't 
be  helped  now — well,  the  girl  told  me  we  should  meet  again, 
and  that  it  was  probably  you  who  was  mixed  up  with  my 
fate-line.    What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Pcier  had  not  an  idea,  really.  He  was  going  through  the 
most  amazing  set  of  sensations.  He  felt  heavy  and  dull,  and 
as  if  he  were  utterly  at  a  loss  how  to  deal  with  a  female  of  so 
obviously  and  totally  different  a  kind  from  any  he  had  met 


94  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

before;  but,  with  it  all,  he  was  very  conscious  of  being  glad 
to  be  there.  Underneath  everything,  too,  he  felt  a  bit  of  a 
dare-devil,  which  was  a  delightful  experience  for  a  London 
curate ;  and  still  deeper,  much  more  mysteriously  and  almost 
a  little  terrifyingly,  something  stranger  still,  that  he  had 
known  this  girl  for  ages,  although  he  had  not  seen  her  for  a 
long  time.  "I'm  highly  privileged,  I'm  sure,"  he  said,  and 
could  have  kicked  himself  for  a  stupid  ass. 

"Oh  I^rd!"  said  Julie,  with  a  mock  expression  of  horror; 
"for  goodness'  sake  don't  talk  like  that.  That's  the  worst  of 
a  parson :  he  can't  forget  the  drawing-room.  At  any  rate, 
I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  highly  fortunate,  but  I  thought  I  ought 
to  give  Fate  a  chance.     Do  you  smoke?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter  wonderingly. 

"Then  for  goodness*  sake  smoke,  and  you'll  feel  better. 
No,  I  daren't  here,  but  I'm  glad  you  are  educated  enough  to 
ask  me.  Nurses  aren't  supposed  to  smoke  in  public,  you 
know,  and  I  take  it  that  even  you  have  observed  that  I'm  a 
nurse." 

She  was  quite  right.  Peter  drew  on  his  cigarette  and  felt 
more  at  case.  "Well,  to  be  absolutely  honest,  I  had,"  he  said. 
"And  1  observe,  moreover,  that  you  are  -not  wearing  exactly 
an  English  nurse's  uniform,  and  that  you  have  what  I  might 
venture  to  call  a  zoological  badge.  I  therefore  conclude  that, 
like  my  friend  Donovan,  you  hail  from  South  Africa.  What 
hospital  are  you  in  ?" 

"(Juai  de  France,"  she  said.    "Know  it?" 

Peter  repressed  a  start.  "Quai  dc  France?"  he  queried. 
"Where's  that,  now?" 

At  tliis  moment  a  song  started,  but  his  companion  dropped 
her  voice  to  stage  whisper  and  replied :  "End  of  the  harbour, 
near  where  the  leave-boat  starts.    Know  it  now?" 

He  nodded,  but  was  saved  a  reply. 

She  looked  away  toward  the  platform,  and  he  studied  her 
face  surreptitiously.  It  seemed  very  young  till  you  looked 
closely,  especially  at  the  eyes,  and  then  you  perceived  some- 


-    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  9S 

thing  lurking  there.  She  was  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight, 
he  concluded.  She  looked  as  if  she  knew  the  world  inside 
out,  and  as  if  there  were  something  hidden  below  the  gaiety. 
Peter  felt  curiously  and  intensely  attracted.  His  shyness 
vanished.  He  had,  and  had  had,  no  intimations  of  the  doings 
of  Providence,  and  nobody  could  possibly  be  more  sceptical 
of  fate-linee  than  he,  but  it  dawned  on  him  as  he  stared  at 
her  that  he  would  fathom  that  look  somehow,  somewhere. 

"Fm  practically  not  made  up  at  all,"  she  whispered,  with- 
out turning  her  head,  "so  for  Heaven's  sake  don't  say  there's 
too  much  ])owdcr  on  my  nose." 

Peter  shook  silently.  "No,  but  a  faint  trace  on  the  right 
cheek,"  he  whispered  back.  She  turned  then  and  looked  at 
him,  and  her  eyes  challenged  his.  And  yet  it  is  to  be  supposed 
that  Hilda  knew  nothing  whatever  about  it. 

"  'Right  on  my  mother's  knee  .  .  .'  "  sang  the  platform. 

"  'IVithout  a  shirt,  ivithout  a  shirt,' "  gagged  Peter,  sotto 
Voce,  and  marvelled  at  himself.  But  he  felt  that  her  smoth- 
ered laughter  amply  rewarded  him. 

The  song  ceased  in  time,  and  the  encore,  which  the)'  both 
Vigorously  demanded.    And  immediately  she  began  again. 

"I  hope  to  goodness  tea  isn't  far  off,"  she  said.  "By  the 
way,  you'll  have  to  take  me  to  it,  now,  you  know.  We  go 
out  of  that  door,  and  up  a  flight  of  steps,  and  there's  the 
matron's  room  on  the  top  and  a  visitor's  room  next  to  it. 
and  tea  '11  be  there.  It  will  be  a  fiendish  squash,  and  I 
wouldn't  go  if  I  hadn't  you  to  get  me  tea  and  take  me  away 
afterwards  as  soon  as  possible." 

"I'm  highly  privileged,  I'm  sure,"  said  Peter  again,  quite 
deliberately.  She  laughed.  "You  are,"  she  said,  "Look 
how  you're  coming  on !  Ten  minutes  ago  you  were  a  bored 
curate,  and  now  you're — what  are  you  ?" 

Peter  hesitated  perceptibly.  He  felt  he  might  say  many 
things.  Then  he  said  "A  trapped  padre,"  and  they  both 
laughed. 

"Thank  goodness  you're  not  sentimental,  anyway,"  she 


96  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

said.  "Nor's  your  friend ;  but  the  matron  is.  I  know  her 
sort.     Look  at  them." 

Peter  looked.  Donovan  appeared  still  entirely  at  his  ease, 
but  he  was  watching  Peter,  who  realised  why  he  had  been 
made  to  look.  He  brazened  it  out,  smiled  back  at  him,  and 
turned  perfectly  deliberately  to  his  companion. 

"Julie,"  he  said,  "don't  look  over  there  any  more,  for 
goodness'  sake,  or  we'll  have  Donovan  here.  And  if  he  comes 
he'll  sail  in  and  take  you  to  tea  without  a  word.  I  know  him. 
He's  got  an  unfair  advantage  over  me.  Pm  just  waking  up, 
and  he's  been  awake  for  years.    Please  give  me  a  chance." 

She  leaned  back  and  regarded  him  humorously.  "You're 
not  doing  so  badly,"  she  said.  "I  don'i  know  that  a  man  has 
ever  called  me  'Julie'  before  in  the  first  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Do  you  know  that,  Solomon?" 

"It's  your  fault.  I've  never  been  introduced,  and  I  must 
call  you  something,  so  why  not  the  name  your  friend  called 
you?  Julie's  very  pretty  and  suits  you.  Somehow  I  couldn't 
''.all  you  'Miss'  anything,  though  it  may  be  convenient  to  know 
the  rest.  Do  you  think  you  could  call  me  the  Rev.  Peter 
Graham  ?" 

"I  couldn't,"  she  confessed,  slightly  more  solemnly. 
"Queer,  isn't  it?  But  don't  talk  about  it:  it  isn't  lucky.  I 
shall  call  you  Solomon  for  ever  now.  And  you  can  only 
call  me  Miss  Gamelyn  when  you've  got  to.     See?" 

"But  why  in  the  world  'Solomon'?    It  doesn't  fit  me  a  bit." 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "it  does,  but  don't  worry  why.  Perhaps 
because,  as  the  old  man  said  to  the  vicar  when  he  heard 
of  Solomon's  wives,  you  are  a  highly  privileged  Christian. 
You  can't  deny  that,  since  you've  said  it  twice.  Praises  be, 
here  is  tea.  Come  on ;  come  on.  Tommy.  Oh,  Tommy,  this 
is  die  Very  Reverend  Peter  Graham.  Mr.  Graham,  this  is 
one  Raynard,  commonly  known  as  Tommy,  my  half -section, 
so  try  to  be  polite." 

There  was  a  general  movement,  and  Peter  shook  hands  as 
he  got  up.    The  other  girl  struck  him  at  once  as  a  good  sort. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  97 

•You're  booked  to  take  us  to  tea,  I  suppose?"  she  said. 
"Julie's  far  more  practical  than  you'd  imagine,  padre." 

They  left  the  rov/  of  chairs  together,  Julie  well  in  front  and 
apparently  forgetful  of  their  existence.  As  they  came  abreast 
of  the  empty  bed,  Peter  noticed  that  the  assistant  matron  had 
gone,  and  that  Donovan  was  drifting  in  the  stream  alongside 
her  in  front.  But  before  they  were  out  of  the  great  ward, 
Julie  and  he  were  laughing  together.  Peter  felt  absurdly 
hurt,  and  hated  himself  for  feeling  it.  The  other  girl  was 
talking  at  his  elbow,  but  he  made  ridiculous  and  commonplace 
replies  and  hardly  noticed  her.  She  broke  off  at  last  abruptly, 
antl  he  roused  himself  to  carry  on.  He  caught  her  expression, 
and  somehow  or  other  it  landed  him  deeper  in  the  business. 
He  made  a  deliberate  move. 

"Where  are  you  going  after  this?"  he  asked. 

"Down  town  to  do  some  shopping;  then  1  suppose  home, 
unless  a  fit  seizes  Julie  and  we  run  a  risk  once  more  of  being 
summarily  repatriated." 

He  laughed.    "Does  that  often  happen?" 

"Quite  often.  You  see  ours  is  an  English  hospital,  though 
we  are  South  Africans  attached  to  it.  I  think  they're  much 
more  strict  than  Colonial  hospitals.  But  they  give  us  more 
kititude  than  the  rest,  at  any  rate.  Julie  had  a  fearful  row 
once,  and  simply  declared  she  would  do  some  things,  and 
since  then  they  turn  a  blind  eye  occasionally.  But  there  are 
limits,  and  one  day  she'll  step  over  them — I  know  she  will." 

"Let's  hope  not,"  said  Peter ;  "but  now  let  me  get  you 
some  tea." 

The  little  room  was  packed,  but  Peter  got  through  some- 
how and  made  his  way  to  a  series  of  tables  spread  with  cakes 
and  sandwiches.  He  got  a  cup  and  seized  a  plate,  and  shoul- 
dered his  way  back.  In  the  crush  he  saw  only  the  top  of 
Miss  Raynard's  head,  and  made  for  that.  "Here  you  are," 
he  said  cheerfully,  as  he  emerged.    "Have  a  sandwich?" 

"Thanks,"  she  said  as  she  took  it;  "but  why  didn't  you 
bring  two  cups?" 


98  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Why?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  towards  a  corner  and  there  was  JuHe,  wedged 
in  between  people,  and  refusing  tea  from  a  subaltern.  "She 
expects  you  to  bring  it,"  said  Miss  Raynard. 

Peter  looked  puzzled.  "Where's  Donovan?"  he  said.  "I 
thought  she  came  in  with  him." 

The  girl  smiled.  "She  did,  but  she  arranged  for  you  to 
bring  her  tea,  whoever  Donovan  is,  and  she'll  wait  for  it. 
She's  that  sort.  Besides,  if  Donovan  was  that  officer  with 
the  matron,  he's  probably  got  other  fish  to  fry." 

Peter  waited  for  no  more,  but  plunged  into  the  press  again. 
As  he  emerged,  he  crossed  the  track  of  his  friend,  who  was 
steering  about  with  cakes.  "Hullo,  padre,"  that  individual 
said ;  "you're  a  smart  one,  you  are.  Let's  take  those  girls 
out  to  dinner.    They'll  come  all  right." 

Peter  mumbled  something,  and  went  on  with  his  tea  to- 
wards the  corner.  The  other's  readiness  and  effrontery 
staggered  him,  but  he  wasn't  going  to  give  himself  away. 

"You're  a  brute!"  said  Julie  promptly.  '  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"It's  where  have  you  been,  you  mean,"  retorted  Peter. 
"I  thought  I  was  to  take  you  in  to  tea.  When  last  I  saw  you, 
you  had  Donovan  in  tow." 

"And  you  had  Tommy.    Don't  you  like  her?" 

"Awfully,"  said  Peter;  "I  think  she  wants  something  now. 
But  do  come  across  to  our  side.    Aren't  you  going  soon?" 

"\'es,  when  we  can  get  away.  Remember,  everyone  is 
watching.    You  go  on  out,  and  we  can  meet  you  below." 

"Right,"  said  Peter;  "I'll  collect  Donovan." 

He  found  him  after  a  bit,  and  the  two  made  their  adieux 
and  thanks. 

As  they  went  down  the  steps.  Jack  outlined  the  campaign. 
"I  just  joked  to  her  about  dinner,"  he  said,  "but  I  think 
they'll  rise.  If  they  do,  we'll  go  to  Travalini's,  if  they  dare. 
That  girl  of  yours  is  up  to  anything:  she  knows  a  thing  or 
two.     You've  some  nerve,  old  thing." 

"Nothing  to  yours,"  retorted  Graham,  still  not  at  all  sure 


^  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  99 

of  himself.  "But,  look  here,  what  about  Travalini's?  I 
don't  know  that  I  care  to  go  there." 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  old  dear.  You  haven't  a  vast  collar  on 
now,  and  you  ought  to  see  life.  I've  seen  scores  of  chaplains 
there,  even  old  Arnold.  I'll  look  after  your  morals.  Come 
on;  let's  get  out  and  across  the  road.  We  shall  see  them 
coming  doNun  the  steps." 

The  hospital  fronted  on  to  the  sea  and  the  promenade  that 
once  was  so  fashionable.  The  sun  was  setting,  blood  red, 
over  the  Channel,  the  ships  at  anchor  looking  dark  by  con- 
trast. But  there  was  still  plenty  of  light,  and  Peter  was 
inwardly  conscious  of  his  badges.  Still,  he  told  himself  that 
he  was  an  ass,  and  tlie  two  of  them  sauntered  slowly  town- 
wards. 

In  a  few  minutes  Jack  glanced  back.  "They're  coming," 
he  said,  and  as  the  girls  crossed  on  to  the  pavement  behind 
them,  turned  round.  "Good  for  you,"  he  said.  "You  got 
out  quicker  than  I  thought  you  would.  Shall  we  tram  or 
walk?" 

"Walk,  I  think,"  said  Julie ;  "it's  topping  here  by  the  sea. 
I  want  to  get  a  pair  of  shoes,  and  the  shop's  not  too  far. 
Besides,  you  can  buy  shoes  by  artificial  light,  which  won't  do 
for  some  things.  Tommy  bought  a  hat  the  other  night,  and 
she  nearly  had  a  fit  in  the  morning.  She's  keeping  it  for  the 
next  fancy-dress  stunt." 

She  ran  on,  and,  despite  Peter,  Donovan  annexed  her. 
They  set  off  gaily  ahead,  Julie's  clear  laugh  coming  back 
now  and  again.  Peter  felt  depressed  and  angry.  He  told 
himself  he  was  being  let  in  for  something  he  did  not  want, 
and  he  had  not  much  to  say.  To  make  conversation,  he  asked 
about  South  Africa. 

It  appeared  the  girls  came  from  Natal.  Miss  Raynard  was 
enthusiastic,  and  he  gathered  they  had  been  trained  together 
in  Pietermaritzburg,  but  lived  somewhere  on  the  coast,  where 
there  was  tennis  all  the  year  and  moonlight  bathing  picnics 
in  the  season,  and  excellent  river  boating.  He  could  not 
catch  tlie  tiRTve    but  it  was  not  too  far  from  Durban.     He 


loo  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

said,  in  the  end,  that  he  had  always  wanted  to  visit  South 
Africa,  and  should  certainly  come  to  Natal.  .  .  . 

They  turned  off  the  promenade  into  a  boulevard  lined  with 
the  usual  avenue  of  trees.  It  was  dusk  now,  and  looked 
darker  by  contrast  with  the  street  lamps.  Small  tram-cars 
rushed  by  now  and  again,  with  clanging  bells  and  platforms 
crowded  before  and  behind,  and  there  were  plenty  of  people 
in  the  street.    Julie  turned  abrujjtly. 

"I  say,  Tommy,"  she  said,  "Captain  Donovan  wants  us 
to  go  out  to  dinner.  What  do  you  say  ?  My  shoes  can  wait, 
and  we  needn't  be  in  till  eight-thirty.  It's  not  more  than  six 
now.     It  will  be  a  spree." 

"I'm  gatne ;  but  where  are  we  going?" 

"I  suggest  Travalini's,  padre,"  said  Donovan. 

"Not  fi)r  me,"  said  Miss  Raynard ;  "it's  too  public,  and 
you  seem  to  forget,  Captain  Donovan,  that  we  arc  forbidcicn 
to  dine  with  officers." 

"Nobody  is  likely  to  give  us  away,  Tommy,"  said  Miss 
Gamelyn. 

"I'm  not  going  to  take  the  risk  in  uniform.  Let's  go  to 
a  quiet  hotel,  or  else  to  some  very  French  place.  That  would 
be  fun." 

"A  jolly  good  idea,"  cried  Donovan,  "and  I  know  what 
will  just  fix  us  up.     Come  on." 

Tommy  smiled.  "Probably  it  wiil  fix  us  up.  Tell  us  about 
it  first." 

"It's  absolutely  safe,"  Donovan  protested.  "It's  quite 
French,  and  we  shall  get  one  knife  and  fork  each.  There's 
a  cinema  on  top,  and  billiards  underneath,  and  practically  no 
oflficers  go.  A  Belgian  Captain  I  came  out  with  took  me. 
He  said  you  could  'eat  well'  there,  and  you  can,  for  the  cook- 
ing is  a  treat.     I  swear  it's  all  right." 

"Lead  on,"  said  Julie;  "we'll  trust  you,"  and  she  ma- 
noeuvred so  that  her  half -section  was  left  with  Donovan. 

The  four  walked  briskly  through  the  dusk.  "Don't  you 
love  France  in  the  evening  ?"  demanded  Julie. 


"     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  loi 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  but  dubiously.  "I  don't  know  it  much 
/et,"  he  added. 

"Oh,  I  do.  Even  a  girl  can  almost  do  what  she  likes  out 
here.  I've  had  some  awful  fun  in  Havre.  I  think  one  ought 
to  take  one's  pleasure  when  one  has  the  chance,  don't  you? 
But  some  of  these  girls  give  me  the  hump;  they're  so  narrow. 
They  can't -see  you  with  a  man  without  imagining  all  sorts  of 
things,  whereas  I've  had  some  rattling  good  pals  among  men 
out  here.  Then  they're  so  afraid  of  doing  things — the  girls, 
I  mean.  Do  you  know  I  went  to  Paris  when  I  came  up  here 
from  Boulogne?  Had  absolutely  the  time.  Of  course, 
nobody  knows,  so  don't  speak  of  it — except  Tommy,  of 
course." 

"How  did  you  do  it  ?"  demanded  Peter,  amused. 

"Well,  you  see,  I  and  anotlier  girl,  English,  were  sent  over 
by  Boulogne,  as  you  know,  because  you  saw  us  on  the  boat, 
and  we  were  supposed  to  come  straight  here.  In  the  train 
we  met  a  Canadian  in  the  French  Air  Service,  and  he  put 
us  wise  about  changing,  and  so  on.  But  it  appeared  you  have 
to  change  at  Amiens  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  he  said 
the  thing  was  to  sleep  in  the  train  and  go  right  on  to  Paris. 
Then  you  got  twenty-four  hours  there,  and  left  next  day  by 
the  Havre  express.  The  girl  was  horribly  scared,  but  I  said 
we'd  try  it.  Nothing  happened  at  all.  We  had  a  carriage 
to  ourselves,  and  merely  sat  still  at  Amiens.  When  we  got 
to  Paris  we  simply  walked  out,  bold  as  brass.  I  showed  our 
tickets  at  Havre  and  told  the  French  inspector  we  had  over- 
slept. He  merely  told  us  the  time  to  leave  next  day.  We 
went  to  an  hotel,  and  then  strolled  up  the  Avenue  d  I'Opera. 
And  what  do  you  think  ?  Who  should  I  see  but  an  old  dear 
of  a  General  I  knew  out  in  South  Africa  who  is  in  the  French 
Red  Cross.  He  was  simply  delighted  to  see  us.  He  motored 
us  out  to  the  Bois  in  the  afternoon,  dined  us,  and  took  us  to 
the  theatre — only,  by  Jove!  I  did  curse  that  other  girl.  She 
was  in  a  ferment  all  the  time.  Next  morning  he  had  a  job 
on,  but  he  sent  a  car  for  us  with  a  subaltern  to  put  us  on  the 
train,  and  we  went  to  the  R.T.O.  this  time.    He  couldn't  do 


I02  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

enough  for  us  when  he  heard  the  name  of  General  de  Villiers 
and  saw  his  card.  We  got  into  Havre  at  midday,  and  nobody 
v\as  a  penny  the  wiser." 

Peter  laughed.  "You  were  lucky,"  he  said;  "perhaps  you 
always  are." 

"No,  I'm  not,"  she  said,  "hut  I  usually  do  what  I  want 
and  get  through  with  it.     Hullo,  is  this  the  place?" 

"I  supi)Ose  so,"  said  Peter.  "Now  for  it.  Look  as  if  you'd 
been  going  to  such  places  all  your  life." 

"I've  probably  been  more  often  than  you,  anyhow,  Solo- 
mon," said  Julie,  and  she  ran  lightly  up  the  steps. 

They  passed  through  swing-doors  into  a  larger  hall,  bril- 
liantly lit  and  heavy  with  a  mixed  aroma  of  smoke  and  food. 
There  was  ?  sort  of  hum  of  sound  going  on  all  the  time,  and 
Peter  looked  round  wonderingly.  He  |)erceived  immediately 
that  there  was  an  atmosphere  about  this  French  restaurant 
unlike  that  of  any  he  had  been  in  before.  He  was,  in  truth, 
utterly  bewildered  by  what  he  saw,  but  he  made  an  etfort 
not  to  show  it.  Julie,  on  the  other  hand,  was  fairly  carried 
away.  They  seated  themselves  at  a  table  for  four  near  the 
end  of  the  partition,  and  she  led  the  party  in  gaiety.  Donovan 
hardly  took  his  eyes  oflF  her,  and  cut  in  with  dry,  daring  re- 
marks  with  a  natural  ease.  Tommy  played  a  good  second 
to  Julie,  and  if  she  had  had  any  fears  they  were  not  visible 
now. 

"What  about  an  appetiser?"  demanded  Donovan. 

"Oh,  rather!  Mi.xed  vermuth  for  me;  but  Tommy  must 
have  a  very  small  one :  she  gets  drunk  on  nothing.  Give  me 
a  cigarette  now,  padre ;  I'm  dying  to  smoke." 

Peter  produced  his  case.  "Don't  call  him  'padre'  here," 
said  Donovan ;  "you'll  spoil  his  enjoyment." 

"A  cigarette,  Solomon,  then,"  whispered  Julie,  as  the  other 
turned  to  beckon  a  gar^on,  flashing  her  eyes  on  him. 

Peter  resisted  no  longer.  "Don't,"  he  said.  "Call  me 
anything  but  that."  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  was  some- 
thing inevitable  in  it  all.  He  did  not  formulate  his  sensa- 
tions, but  it  was  the  lure  of  the  contrast  that  won  him.    Ever 


.•^   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  103 

since  he  had  landed  in  France  he  had,  as  it  were,  hung  on  to 
the  old  conventional  position,  and  he  had  felt  increasingly 
that  it  was  impossible  to  do  so.  True,  there  seemed  little 
connection  between  a  dinner  with  a  couple  of  madcap  girls 
in  a  French  restaurant  and  religion,  but  there  was  one.  He 
had  felt  out  of  touch  with  men  and  life,  and  now  a  new 
phase  of  it  was  offered  him.    He  reached  out  for  it  eagerly. 

Julie  leaned  back  and  blew  out  a  thin  stream  of  smoke,  her 
eyes  daring  him.  picking  up  the  litile  glass  as  she  did  so. 

"Here's  to  the  girl  with  the  little  grey  shoes,"  she  chanted 
merrily. 

"Don't  Julie,  for  Heaven's  sake  !"  pleaded  Tommy.  "He'll 
be  shocked." 

"Oh,  go  on,"  said  Peter;  "what  is  it?" 

"Captain  Donovan  will  finish,"  laughed  Julie. 

"  'Deed  I  can't,  for  I  don't  know  it,"  he  said.  "Let's  have 
it,  little  girl ;  I'm  sure  it's  a  sjxDrting  toast." 

■'  '11' ho  eats  your  grub  and  drinks  your  hooze'  "  continued 
she. 

"Shut  up,  Julie,"  said  Tommy,  leaning  over  as  if  to  snatch 
her  glass. 

"  'And  then  goes  home  to  her  mother  to  snoose,' "  called 
Julie  breathlessly,  leaning  back. 

"  7  don't  think'  "  ejaculated  Donovan. 

Julie  tipped  down  the  drink.  "You  knew  it  all  the  time," 
she  said.    And  they  all  burst  out  laughing. 

Peter  drank,  and  called  for  another,  his  eyes  on  Julie.  He 
knew  that  he  could  not  sum  her  up,  but  he  refused  to  believe 
that  this  was  the  secret  behind  the  eyes.  She  was  too  gay, 
too  insolent.  What  Donovan  thought  he  could  not  say,  but 
he  almost  hated  him  for  the  ease  with  which  he  kept  pace 
with  their  companions. 

They  ordered  dinner,  and  the  great  dish  of  hors  d'oeuzres 
was  brought  round  by  a  waiter  who  seemed  to  preside  over 
it  with  a  fatherly  solicitude.  Julie  picked  up  an  olive  in  her 
fingers,  and  found  it  so  good  that  she  grumbled  at  only  having 
taken  one. 


104  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Have  mine,"  said  Donovan,  shooting  one  on  to  her  plate. 

"Thanks,"  she  said.  "Oh,  heavens!  I  forgot  that  patch 
on  my  left  cheek — or  was  it  my  right,  Solomon?    Let's  see." 

She  dived  into  her  pocket,  and  produced  a  tiny  satin  beaded 
box.  "Isn't  it  chic?"  she  demanded,  leaning  over  to  show 
Donovan,  "I  got  it  in  the  Nouvelles  Galleries  the  other  day." 
She  took  off  the  lid,  which  revealed  its  reverse  as  a  tiny 
mirror,  and  scrutinised  herself,  patting  back  a  stray  lock  on 
her  forehead. 

"Oh,  don't,"  said  Donovan,  and  he  slipped  the  hair  out 
again  with  his  finger. 

"Be  quiet ;  but  I'll  concede  that.  This  won't  do,  though." 
Out  came  a  tiny  powder-puff.  "How's  that?"  she  demanded, 
smiling  up  at  him. 

"Perfect,"  he  said.    "But  it's  not  fair  to  do  that  here." 

"Wait  for  the  taxi  then,"  she  said.  "Besides,  it  won't 
matter  so  much  then." 

"What  won't  matter?"  demanded  Peter. 

"Solomon,  dear,  you're  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  babe. 
Isn't  he?"  she  demanded  of  his  friend. 

Donovan  looked  across  at  him.  "Still  waters  run  deep/' 
he  said.    "I  don't  know,  but  excuse  me!" 

He  had  been  sitting  next  Julie  and  opposite  Miss  Raynard, 
but  he  was  now  on  his  feet  and  begging  her  to  change  places 
with  him.  She  consented,  laughing,  and  did  so,  but  Julie 
pretended  to  be  furious. 

"I  won't  have  it.  You're  a  perfect  beast,  Tommy.  Captain 
Donovan,  I'll  never  come  out  with  you  again.  Solomon, 
come  and  sit  here,  and  you.  Tommy,  go  over  there." 

Peter  hadn't  an  idea  why,  but  he  too  got  up.  Tommy  pro' 
tested.  "Look  here,"  she  said,  "I  came  for  dinner,  not  fof 
a  dance.  Oh,  look  out.  Captain  Graham ;  you'll  upset  the 
cutlets !"  Peter  avoided  the  waiter  by  an  effort,  but  came 
on  round  her  to  the  other  side. 

"Get  out  of  it.  Tommy,"  said  Julie,  leaning  over  and  push- 
ing her.    "I  will  have  a  man  beside  me,  anyhow." 

"I'd  sooner  be  opposite,"  said  Donovan.     "I  can  see  yoti 


'    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  105 

better,  and  you  can't  make  eyes  at  the  Frenchman  at  the 
other  table  quite  so  well  if  I  get  my  head  in  the  way." 

"Oh,  but  he's  such  a  dear,"  said  Julie.  "I'd  love  to  flirt 
with  him.    Only  I  must  say  his  hair  is  a  bit  greasy." 

"You'll  make  his  lady  furious  if  you  don't  take  care,"  saicj 
Donovan,  "and  it's  a  shame  to  spoil  her  trade." 

Peter  glanced  across.  A  French  officer,  sitting  opposite 
a  painted  girl,  was  smiling  at  them.  He  looked  at  Julie;  she 
was  smiling  back. 

"Julie,  don't  for  Heaven's  sake,"  said  her  half -section, 
"We  shall  have  him  over  here  next,  and  you  remember  onc« 
before  how  awkward  it  was." 

Julie  laughed.  "Give  me  another  drink,  then.  Captain 
Donovan,"  she  said,  "and  Til  be  good." 

Donovan  filled  up  her  glass.  She  raised  it  and  challenged 
him.    "  'Here's  to  we  two  in  Blighty,'  "  she  began. 

Miss  Raynard  rose  determinedly  and  interrupted  her. 
"Come  on,"  she  said;  "that's  a  bit  too  much,  Julie.  We 
must  go,  or  we'll  never  get  back,  and  don't  forget  you've  got 
to  go  on  duty  in  the  morning,  my  dear."  She  pulled  out  a 
little  watch.  "Good  heavens!"  she  cried.  "Do  you  know 
the  time  ?  It's  eight-twenty  now.  We  ought  to  have  been  in 
by  eight,  and  eight-thirty  is  the  latest  time  that's  safe.  For 
any  sake,  come  on." 

Julie  for  once  agreed.  "Good  Lord,  yes,"  she  said.  "We 
must  have  a  taxi.    Can  we  get  one  easily  ?" 

"Oh,  I  expect  so,"  said  Donovan.  "Settle  up,  Graham, 
will  you?  while  I  shepherd  them  out  and  get  a  car.  Come 
on,  and  take  care  how  you  pass  the  Frenchman." 

In  a  few  minutes  Peter  joined  them  on  the  steps  outside. 
The  restaurant  was  in  the  corner  of  a  square  which  con- 
tained a  small  public  garden,  and  the  three  of  them  were 
waiting  for  him  on  the  curb.  A  taxi  stood  by  them.  The 
broad  streets  ran  away  to  left  and  right,  gay  with  lights 
and  passers-by,  and  the  dark  trees  stood  out  against  a  starry 
sky.  A  group  of  British  officers  went  laughing  by,  and 
one  of   them  recognised   Donovan  and  hailed   him.     Two 


io6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

spahis  crossed  out  of  the  shade  into  the  Hght,  their  red  and 
gold  a  picturesque  splash  of  colour.  Behind  them  glared 
the  staring  pictures  of  the  cinema  show  on  a  great  hoarding 
by  the  wall. 

"Come  on,  Graham,"  called  Donov^an,  "hop  in." 

The  four  packed  in  closely,  Peter  and  Tommy  opposite 
the  other  two,  Julie  farthest  from  Peter.  They  started,  and 
he  caught  her  profile  as  the  street  lights  shone  in  and  out 
with  the  speed  of  their  passing.  She  was  smoking,  pufling 
quickly  at  her  cigarette,  and  hardly  silent  a  moment. 

"It's  been  a  perfect  treat,"  she  said.  "You're  both  dears, 
aren't  they,  Tommy?  You  must  come  and  have  tea  at  the 
hospital  any  day:  just  walk  in.  Mine's  Ward  3.  Come 
about  four  o'clock,  and  you'll  find  me  any  day  this  week. 
Tommy's  opposite.  There's  usually  a  crush  at  tea,  but  you 
must  come.  By  the  way,  where's  your  camp?  Aren't  you 
going  heaps  out  of  your  way?  Solomon,  where  do  you  live? 
Tell  me." 

Peter  grinned  in  the  dark,  and  told  her. 

"Oh,  you  perfect  beast!"  she  said.  "Then  you  knew  the 
Quai  de  France  all  the  time.  Well,  you're  jolly  near,  any- 
way." "Oh,  Lord !"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "you  aren't 
the  new  padre?" 

"I  am,"  said  Peter. 

"Good  Lord !  what  a  spree !  Then  you'll  come  in  on 
duty.  You  can  come  in  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night. 
Tommy,  do  you  hear  that?  Solomon's  our  spiritual  pastor. 
He's  begun  well,  hasn't  he?" 

Peter  was  silent.  It  jarred  him  horribly.  But  just  then 
the  car  slowed  down. 

"What's  up  now?"  demanded  Donovan. 

"Only  the  sentry  at  the  swing  bridge,"  said  Tommy. 
"They  stop  all  cars  at  night.  He's  your  side,  dear ;  give 
him  the  glad  eye." 

The  door  opened,  and  a  red-cap  looked  in.  "Hospital, 
corporal ;  it's  all  right,"  said  Julie,  beaming  at  him. 

"Oh,  all  right,  miss.    Good-night,"  said  the  man,  stepping 


^    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  107 

back  and  saluting  in  the  light  of  the  big  electric  standard 
at  the  bridgehead.     "Carry  on,  driver!" 

"We're  just  there,"  said  Julie ;  "I  am  sorry.  It's  been 
rippin'.  Stop  the  car,  Solomon,  somewhere  near  the  leave- 
boat  ;  it  won't  do  to  drive  right  up  to  the  hospital ;  we  might 
be  spotted." 

Peter  leaned  out  of  the  window  on  his  side.  The  lights 
on  the  quay  glowed  steadily  across  the  dark  water,  and 
made  golden  flicking  streaks  upon  it  as  the  tide  swelled 
slowly  in.  In  the  distance  a  great  red  eye  flashed  in  and 
out  solemnly,  and  on  their  side  he  could  see  the  shaded  lights 
of  tlie  hospital  ship,  getting  ready  for  her  night  crossing. 
He  judged  it  was  time,  and  lold  the  man  to  stop. 

"Where's  my  powder-pulT?"  demanded  Julie.  "I  believe 
you've  bagged  it,  Captain  Donovan.  No,  it's  here.  Skip 
out.  Tommy.     Is  anyone  about  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  girl  from  the  step.  "But  don't  wait  all 
night.    We'd  best  run  for  it." 

"Well,  good-night,"  said  Julie.  "You  have  both  been 
dears,  but  whether  I'm  steady  enough  to  get  in  safely  I 
don't  know.  Still,  Tommy's  a  rock.  See  you  again  soon. 
Good-bye-ee !" 

She  leaned  forward.  "Now,  if  you're  good,"  she  said  to 
Oonovan.  He  kissed  her,  laughing;  and  before  he  knew 
what  she  was  doing,  she  reached  over  to  Peter,  kissed  him 
twice  on  the  lips,  and  leaped  lightly  out.  "Be  good,"  she  said, 
"and  if  you  can't,  be  careful." 


CHAPTER  VII 

FOLLOWING  a  delay  of  some  days,  there  had  been  a 
fairly  heavy  mail,  and  Peter  took  his  letters  to  the  little 
terrace  by  the  sea  outside  the  mess,  and  sat  in  the  sun  to  read 
them.  While  he  was  so  occupied  Arnold  appeared  with  a 
pipe,  but,  seeing  him  engaged,  went  back  for  a  novel  and  a 
deck-chair.  It  was  all  very  peaceful  and  still,  and  beyond 
occasional  hammering  from  the  leisurely  construction  of 
the  outer  harbour  wall  and  once  or  twice  the  siren  of  a 
signalling  steamer  entering  the  docks,  there  was  nothing 
to  disturb  them  at  all.  Perhaps  half  an  hour  passed.  Then 
Peter  folded  up  some  sheets,  put  them  in  his  pocket,  and 
w-alked  moodily  to  the  edge  of  the  concrete,  staring  down 
at  the  lazy  slushing  of  the  tide  against  the  wall  below  him. 

He  kicked  a  pebble  discontentedly  into  the  water,  and 
turned  to  look  at  Arnold.  The  older  man  was  stretched  out 
in  his  chair  smoking  a  pipe  and  regarding  him.  A  slow 
smile  passed  between  them. 

"No,  hang  it  all,"  said  Peter ;  "there's  nothing  to  smile 
about,  Arnold.    I've  pretty  well  got  to  the  end  of  my  tether." 

"Meaning  what  exactly?"  queried  the  other. 

"Oh,  well,  you  know  enough  already  to  guess  the  rest. 
.  .  .  Look  here,  Arnold,  you  and  I  are  fairly  good  pals 
now.    I'd  just  like  to  tell  you  exactly  what  I  feel." 

"Sit  down  then,  man,  and  get  it  out.  There's  a  chair 
yonder,  and  you've  got  the  forenoon  before  ye.  I'm  a 
heretic  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  course,  but  perhaps 
that'll  make  it  easier.  I  take  it  it's  a  kind  of  heretic  you're 
becoming  yourself." 

Peter  pulled  up  a  chair  and  got  out  his  own  pipe. 
"Arnold,"  he  said,  "I'm  too  serious  to  joke,  and  I  don't 

1 08 


^  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  109 

know  that  I'm  even  a  Christian  heretic.  I  don't  know  what 
I  am  and  where  I  stand.  I  wish  I  did ;  I  wish  I  even  knew 
how  much  I  disbcHeved,  for  then  I'd  know  what  to  do.  But 
it's  not  that  my  dogmas  have  been  attacked  and  weakened. 
I've  no  new  light  on  the  Apostles'  Creed  and  no  fresh  doubts 
about  it.  I  could  still  argue  for  the  Virgin  Birth  of  Christ 
and  the  Trinity,  and  so  on.  But  it's  worse  than  that.  I 
feel  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  abruptly  and  pulled  at  his  pipe. 
The  other  said  nothing.  They  were  friends  enough  by  now 
to  understand  each  other.  In  a  little  while  the  younger  man 
found  the  words  he  wanted. 

"Look  here,  it's  like  this.  I  remember  once,  on  the  Elast 
Coast,  coming  across  a  stone  breakwater  high  and  dry  in  a 
field  half  a  mile  from  the  sea.  There  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  the  breakwater,  and  it  served  admirably  for 
certain  purposes — a  seat,  for  instance,  or  a  shady  place  for 
a  picnic.  But  it  was  no  longer  of  any  vital  use  in  the 
world,  for  the  sea  had  receded  and  left  it  there.  Now,  that's 
just  what  I  feel.  I  had  a  religion;  I  suppose  it  had  its 
weaknesses  and  its  faults ;  but  most  of  it  was  good  sound 
stone,  and  it  certainly  had  served.  But  it  serves  no  longer, 
not  because  it's  damaged,  but  because  the  need  for  it  has 
changed  its  nature  or  is  no  longer  there."  He  trailed  off  into 
silence  and  stopped. 

Arnold  stirred  to  get  out  his  pouch.  "The  sea  is  shifty, 
though,"  he  said.  "If  they  keep  the  breakwater  in  decent 
repair,  it'll  come  in  handy  again." 

"Yes,"  burst  out  Peter.  "But,  of  course,  that's  where 
illustrations  are  so  little  good:  you  can't  press  them.  And 
in  any  case  no  engineer  worth  his  salt  would  sit  down  by 
his  breakwater  and  smoke  a  pipe  till  the  sea  came  in  handy 
again.    His  job  is  to  go  after  it." 

"True  for  ye,  boy.  But  if  the  old  plan  was  so  good, 
why  not  go  down  to  the  beach  and  get  on  with  building  oper- 
ations of  the  same  sort?" 

"Arnold,"  said  Peter,  "you  couldn't  have  put  it  better. 
That's  exactly  what  I  came  here  to  do.     I  knew  in  London 


no  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

that  the  sea  was  receding  to  some  extent,  and  I  thought  that 
there  was  a  jolly  good  chance  to  get  up  with  it  again  out 
here.  But  that  leads  straight  to  my  second  problem :  I  can't 
build  on  the  old  plan,  and  it  doesn't  seem  any  good.  It's 
as  if  our  engineer  found  quicksands  that  wouldn't  hold  his 
stone,  and  cross-currents  that  smashed  up  all  his  piles.  .  .  . 
I  mean,  I  thought  I  knew  what  would  save  souls.  But  I  find 
that  I  can't  because  my  methods  are — I  don't  know,  faulty 
perhaps,  out  of  date  maybe,  possibly  worse;  and,  what  is 
more,  the  souls  don't  want  my  saving.  The  Lord  knows 
they  want  something ;  I  can  see  that  fast  enough,  but  what 
it  is  I  don't  know.  Heavens !  I  remember  preaching  in  the 
beginning  of  the  war  from  the  text  'Jesus  had  compassion 
on  the  multitude.'  Well,  I  don't  feel  that  He  has  changed, 
and  I'm  quite  sure  He  still  has  compassion,  but  the  multi- 
tude doesn't  want  it.  I  was  wrong  about  the  crowd.  It's 
nothing  like  what  I  imagined.  The  crowd  isn't  interested 
in  Jesus  any  more.  It  doesn't  believe  in  Him.  It's  a  differ- 
ent sort  of  crowd  altogether  from  the  one  He  fed." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Arnold. 

Peter  moved  impatiently.  "Well,  I  don't  see  how  you 
can,"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  Tommy  worries  about  his 
sins?  Are  the  men  in  our  mess  miserable?  Does  the  girl 
the  good  books  talked  about,  who  flirts  and  smokes  and 
drinks  and  laughs,  sit  down  by  night  on  the  edge  of  her  litt'ie 
white  bed  and  feel  a  blank  in  her  life?    Does  she,  Arnold?" 

"I'm  blest  if  I  know;  I  haven't  been  there!  You  seem 
to  know  a  precious  lot  about  it,"  he  added  dryly. 

"Oh,  don't  rag  and  don't  be  facetious.  If  you  do,  I 
shall  clear.  I'm  trying  to  talk  sense,  and  at  any  rate  it's 
what  I  feel.  And  I  believe  you  know  I'm  right  too."  Peter 
was  plainly  a  bit  annoyed. 

The  elder  padre  sat  up  straight  at  that,  and  his  tone 
changed.  He  stared  thoughtfully  out  to  sea  and  did  not 
smoke.  But  he  did  not  speak  all  at  once.  Peter  glanced  at 
him,  and  then  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  waited. 

Arnold    spoke  at  last;   possibly   the  harbour   works   in- 


^   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  in 

spired  him.  "Look  here,  boy,"  he  said,  "let's  get  back  to 
your  illustration,  which  is  no  such  a  bad  one.  What  do 
you  suppose  your  engineer  would  do  when  he  got  down 
to  the  new  sea-beach  and  found  the  conditions  you  described  ? 
It  wouldn't  do  much  good  if  he  sat  down  and  cursed  the 
blessed  sea  and  the  sands  and  the  currents,  would  it?  It 
would  be  mighty  little  use  if  he  blamed  his  good  stone  and 
sound  timber,  useless  though  they  appeared.  I'm  thinking 
he'd  be  no  much  of  an  engineer  either  if  he  chucked  his 
job.    What  would  he  do,  d'you  think?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Peter,  interested. 

"Well,"  said  the  speaker  in  parables,  "unless  I'm  mighty 
mistaken,  he'd  get  down  first  to  studying  the  new  conditions. 
He'd  find  they'd  got  laws  governing  them,  same  as  the 
old — different  laws  maybe,  but  things  you  could  perhaps 
reckon  with  if  you  knew  tliem.  And  when  he  knew  them, 
I  reckon  he'd  have  a  look  at  his  timber  and  stone  and  iron, 
and  get  out  plans.  Maybe,  these  days,  he'd  help  out  with  a 
few  tons  of  reinforced  concrete,  and  get  in  a  bit  o'  work 
with  some  high  explosive.  I'm  no  saying.  But  if  he  came 
from  north  of  the  Tweed,  my  lad,"  he  added,  with  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye  and  a  touch  of  accent,  "I  should  be  verra  surprised 
if  that  foreshore  hadn't  a  breakwater  that  would  do  its  duty 
in  none  so  long  a  while." 

"And  if  he  came  from  south  of  the  Tweed,  and  found 
himself  in  France?"  queried  Peter. 

"I  reckon  he'd  get  down  among  the  multitude  and  make 
a  few  inquiries,"  said  Arnold,  more  gravely.  "I  reckon 
he  wouldn't  be  in  too  great  a  hurry,  and  he  wouldn't  be- 
lieve all  he  saw  and  heard  without  chewing  on  it  a  bit,  as 
our  Yankee  friends  say.  And  he'd  know  well  enough  that 
there  was  nothing  wrong  with  his  Master,  and  no  change  in 
His  compassion,  only,  maybe,  that  he  had  perhaps  misunder- 
stood both  a  little." 

A  big  steamer  hooted  as  she  came  up  the  river,  and  the 
echoes  of  the  siren  died  out  slowly  among  the  houses  that 
climbed  up  the  hill  behind  them. 


112  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Then  Peter  put  his  hand  up  and  rested  his  head  upon  it, 
shading  his  face. 

"That's  difficult — and  dangerous,  Arnold,"  he  said. 

"It  is  that,  laddie,"  the  other  answered  quickly.  "There 
was  a  time  when  I  would  have  thought  it  too  difficult  and 
too  dangerous  for  a  boy  of  mine.  But  I've  had  a  lesson  or 
two  to  learn  out  here  as  well  as  other  folks.  L'p  the  line 
men  have  learnt  not  to  hesitate  at  things  because  they  are 
difficult  and  dangerous.  And  I'll  tell  you  something  else 
we've  learnt — that  it  is  better  for  half  a  million  to  fall  in  the 
trying  than  for  the  thing  not  to  be  tried  at  all." 

"Arnold,"  said  Peter,  "what  about  yourself?  Do  you 
mind  my  asking?  Do  you  feel  this  sort  of  thing  at  all,  and, 
if  so,  what's  your  solution?" 

The  padre  from  north  of  the  Tweed  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe  and  got  up.  "Young  man,"  he  said,  "I 
don't  mind  your  asking,  but  I'm  getting  old,  and  my  an* 
swering  wouldn't  do  either  of  us  any  good.  If  I  have  a 
solution  I  don't  suppose  it  would  be  yours.  Besides,  a 
man  can't  save  his  brother,  and  not  even  a  father  can  save 
his  son.  .  .  .  I've  nothing  to  tell  ye,  except,  maybe,  this — 
don't  fear  and  don't  falter,  and  wherever  you  get  to,  re^ 
member  that  God  is  there.  David  is  out  of  date  these  days, 
and  very  likely  it  wasn't  David  at  all,  but  I  don't  know  any- 
thing truer  in  the  auld  book  than  yon  verse  where  it  says; 
'Though  I  go  down  into  hell.  Thou  art  there  also.'  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  padre,"  said  a  drawling  voice  behind 
them.  "I  caught  a  word  just  now  which  I  understand  no 
decent  clergyman  uses  except  in  the  pulpit.  If,  therefore, 
you  are  preaching,  I  will  at  once  and  discreetly  withdraw, 
but  if  not,  for  his  very  morals'  sake,  I  will  withdraw  your 
congregation — that  is,  if  he  hasn't  forgotten  his  engagement." 

Graham  jumped  up.  "Good  Heavens,  Pennell !"  he  ex' 
claimed,  "I'm  blest  if  I  hadn't."  He  pushed  his  arm  out 
and  glanced  at  his  watch.  "Oh,  there's  plenty  of  time,  any- 
way. I'm  lunching  with  this  blighter  down  town,  padre,  at 
some  special  restaurant  of  his,"  he  explained,  "and  I  take 


-  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  113 

it  the  sum  and  substance  of  his  unseemly  remarks  are  that 
he  thinks  we  ought  to  get  a  move  on." 

"Don't  let  me  stand  in  the  way  of  your  youthful  pleas- 
ures," said  Arnold,  smiling;  "but  take  care  of  yourself, 
Graham.  Eat  and  drink,  for  to-morrow  you  die ;  but  don't 
eat  and  drink  too  much  in  case  you  live  to  the  day  after." 

"I'll  remember,"  said  Peter,  "but  I  hope  it  won't  be  nec- 
essary. However,  you  never  know  'among  the  multitude/ 
do  you?"  he  added. 

Arnold  caught  up  the  light  chair  and  lunged  out  at  him. 
"Ye  unseemly  creature,"  he  shouted,  "get  out  of  it  and 
leave  me  in  peace." 

Pennell  and  Peter  left  the  camp  and  crossed  the  swing 
bridge  into  the  maze  of  docks.  Threading  their  way  along 
as  men  who  knew  it  thoroughly  they  came  at  length  to  the 
main  roadway,  with  its  small,  rather  smelly  shops,  its  narrow 
side-streets  almost  like  Edinburgh  closes,  and  its  succession 
of  sheds  and  offices  between  which  one  glimpsed  the  water. 
Just  here  the  war  had  made  a  tlitTerence.  There  was  less 
pleasure  traffic  up  Seine  and  along  Channel,  though  the 
Southampton  packet  ran  as  regularly  as  if  no  submarine  had 
ever  been  built.  Peter  liked  Pennell.  He  was  an  observant 
creature  of  considerable  decencies,  and  a  good  companion. 
He  professed  some  religion,  and  although  it  was  neither 
profound  nor  apparently  particularly  vital,  it  helped  to  link 
the  two  men.  As  they  went  on,  the  shops  grew  a  little 
better,  but  no  re5«"aurant  was  visible  that  offered  much  ex- 
pectation. 

"Where  in  the  world  are  you  taking  me  ?"  demanded  Peter. 
"I  don't  mind  slums  in  the  way  of  business,  but  I  prefer 
not  to  go  to  lunch  in  them." 

"Wait  and  see,  my  boy,"  returned  his  companion,  "and 
don't  protest  till  it's  called  for.  Even  then  wait  a  bit  longer, 
and  your  sorrow  shall  be  turned  into  joy — and  that's  Scrip- 
ture. Great  Scott!  see  what  comes  of  fraternising  with 
padres !    Now." 

So  saying  he  dived  in  to  the  right  down  a  dark  passage. 


i^ 


114  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

into  which  the  amazed  Peter  followed  him.  He  had  al- 
ready opened  a  door  at  the  end  of  it  by  the  time  Peter  got 
there,  and  was  halfway  up  a  flight  of  wood  stairs  that  curved 
up  in  front  of  them  out  of  what  was,  obviously,  a  kitchen. 
A  huge  man  turned  his  head  as  Peter  came  in,  and  surveyed 
him  silently,  his  hands  dexterously  shaking  a  frying-pan  over 
a  fire  as  he  did  so. 

"Bon  jour,  monsieur,"  said  Peter  politely. 

Monsieur  grunted,  but  not  unpleasantly,  and  Peter  gripped 
the  banister  and  commenced  to  ascend.  Half-way  up  he 
was  nearly  sent  flying  down  again.  A  rosy -cheeked  girl, 
short  and  dark,  with  sparkling  eyes,  had  thrust  herself 
down  between  him  and  the  rail  from  a  little  landing  above, 
and  was  shouting: 

"Une  omelette  aux  champignons.  Jambon.  Pommes 
sautes,  s'il  vous  plait." 

Peter  recovered  himself  and  smiled.  "Bon  jour,  made- 
moiselle," he  said  this  time.  In  point  of  fact,  he  could  say 
very  little  else. 

"Bon  jour,  monsieur,"  said  the  girl,  and  something  else 
that  he  could  not  catch,  but  by  this  time  he  had  reached 
the  top  in  time  to  witness  a  little  'business'  there.  A  second 
girl,  taller,  older,  slower,  but  equally  smiling,  was  taking 
Pennell's  cap  and  stick  and  gloves,  making  play  with  her 
eyes  the  while.  "Merci,  cherie,"  he  heard  his  friend  say; 
and  then,  in  a  totally  different  voice:  "Ah!  Bon  jour, 
Marie." 

A  third  girl  was  before  them.  In  her  presence  the  other 
two  withdrew.  She  was  tall,  plain,  shrewd  of  face,  with 
reddish  hair,  but  she  smiled  even  as  the  others.  It  was  little 
more  than  a  glance  that  Peter  got,  for  she  called  an  order 
(at  which  the  first  girl  again  disappeared  down  the  stairs), 
greeted  Pennell,  replied  to  his  question  that  there  were  two 
places,  and  was  out  of  sight  again  in  the  room,  seemingly  all 
at  once.  He  too,  then,  surrendered  cap  and  stick,  and  fol- 
lowed his  companion  in. 

There  were  no  more  than  four  tables  in  the  little  room — 


V      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  iiS 

two  for  six,  and  two  for  four  or  five.  Most  were  filled,  but 
he  and  Pennell  secured  two  seats  with  their  backs  to  the 
vail  opposite  a  couple  of  Australian  officers  who  had  ap- 
parently just  commenced.  Peter's  was  by  the  window,  and 
he  glanced  out  to  see  the  sunlit  street  below,  the  wide  spark- 
ling harbour,  and  right  opposite  the  hospital  he  had  now 
visited  several  times  and  his  own  camp  near  it.  There  was 
the  new  green  of  spring  shoots  in  the  window-boxes,  snowy 
linen  on  the  table,  a  cheerful  hum  of  conversation  about  him, 
and  an  oak-panelled  wall  behind  that  had  seen  tlie  Revolu- 
tion. 

"Pennell,"  he  said,  "you're  a  marvel.  The  place  is  per- 
fect." 

By  the  time  they  had  finished  Peter  was  feeling  warmed 
and  friendly,  the  Australians  had  been  joined  to  their  com- 
pany, and  the  four  spent  an  idle  afternoon  cheerfully  enough. 
There  was  nothing  in  strolling  through  the  busy  streets, 
joking  a  little  over  very  French  picture  postcards,  quizzing 
the  passing  girls,  standing  in  a  queue  at  Cox's,  and  finally 
drawing  a  fiver  in  mixed  French  notes,  or  in  wandering 
through  a  huge  shop  of  many  departments  to  buy  some 
toilet  necessities.  But  it  was  good  fun.  There  was  a  com- 
radeship, a  youth  fulness,  carelessness,  about  it  all  that 
gripped  Peter.  He  let  himself  go,  and  when  he  did  so  he 
was  a  good  companion. 

One  little  incident  in  the  Grand  Magasin  completed  his 
abandonment  to  the  day  and  the  hour.  They  were  ostensibly 
buying  a  shaving-stick,  but  at  the  moment  were  cheerily 
wandering  through  the  department  devoted  to  lingerie.  The 
attendant  girls,  entirely  at  ease,  were  trying  to  persuade  the 
taller  of  the  two  Australians,  whom  his  friend  addressed 
as  "Alex,"  to  buy  a  flimsy  lace  nightdress  "for  his  fiancee,'* 
readily  pointing  out  that  he  would  find  no  difficulty  in  get- 
ting rid  of  it  elsewhere  if  he  had  not  got  such  a  desirable 
possession,  when  Peter  heard  an  exclamation  behind  him. 

"Hullo!"  said  a  girl's  voice;  "fancy  finding  you  here!'* 
He   turned   quickly  and  blushed.     Julie   laughed   merrily. 


ii6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Caught  out,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  what  you're  buying,  and 
for  whom.    A  blouse,  a  camisole,  or  worse?" 

-'I'm  not  buying,"  said  Peter,  recovering  his  ease.  "We're 
just  strolling  round,  and  that  girl  insists  that  my  friend  the 
Australian  yonder  should  buy  a  nightie  for  his  fiancee.  He 
says  he  hasn't  one,  so  she  is  persuading  him  that  he  can 
easily  pick  one  up.     What  do  you  think?" 

She  glanced  over  at  the  little  group.  "Easier  than  some 
people  I  know,  I  should  think,"  she  said,  smiling,  taking  in 
his  six  feet  of  bronzed  manhood.  "But  it's  no  use  your 
buying  it.     I  wear  pyjamas,  silk,  and  I  prefer  Venus'." 

"I'll  remember,"  said  Peter.  "By  the  way,  I'm  coming 
to  tf^a  again  to-morrow." 

"That  will  make  three  times  this  week,"  she  said.  "But 
I  suppose  you  will  go  round  the  ward  first."  Then  quickly, 
for  Peter  looked  slightly  unhappy:  "Next  week  I've  a 
whole  day  off." 

"No?"  he  said  eagerly.  "Oh,  do  let's  fix  something  up. 
Will  you  come  out  somewhere?" 

Her  eyes  roved  across  to  Pennell,  who  was  bearing  down 
upon  them.  "We'll  fix  it  up  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "Bring 
Donovan,  and  I'll  get  Tommy.  And  now  introduce  me 
nicely." 

He  did  so,  and  she  talked  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  went 
off  to  join  some  friends,  who  had  moved  on  to  another  de- 
partment. "By  Jove,"  said  Pennell,  "that's  some  girl !  I 
see  now  why  you  are  so  keen  on  the  hospital,  old  dear. 
Wish  I  were  a  padre." 

"I  shall  be  padre  in  .  .  ."  began  Alex,  but  Feter  cut  him 
short. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  he  said.  "I'm  tired  of  that!  Come  on  out 
of  it,  and  let's  get  a  refresher  somewhere.  What's  the  club 
like  here?" 

"Club's  no  good,"  said  Pennell.  "Let's  go  to  Travalini's 
and  introduce  the  padre.    He's  not  been  there  yet." 

"I  thought  everyone  knew  it,"  said  the  other  Australian — • 
rather  contemptuously,  Peter  thought.    What  with  one  thing 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  117 

and  another,  he  felt  sudc!*?nly  that  he'd  like  to  go.  He  re' 
membered  how  nearly  he  had  gone  there  in  other  company. 
"Come  on,  then,"  he  said,  and  led  the  way  out. 

There  was  nothing  in  Travalini's  to  distinguish  it  from 
many  other  such  places — indeed,  to  distinguish  it  from  the 
restaurant  in  which  Peter,  Donovan,  and  the  girls  had  dined 
ten  days  oc  so  before,  except  that  it  was  bigger,  more  garish, 
more  expensive,  and,  consequently,  more  British  in  patron- 
age. The  restaurant  was,  however,  separated  more  completely 
from  the  drinking-lounge,  in  which,  among  palms,  a  string- 
band  played.  There  was  an  hotel  above  besides,  and  that 
helped  business,  but  one  could  come  and  go  innocently  enough, 
for  all  that  there  was  "anything  a  gentleman  wants,"  as  the 
headwaiter,  who  talked  English,  called  himself  a  Belgian, 
and  had  probably  migrated  from  over  the  Rhine,  said.  Every- 
body, indeed,  visited  the  place  now  and  again.  Peter  and 
his  friends  went  in  between  the  evergreen  shrubs  in  their 
pots,  and  through  the  great  glass  swing-door,  with  every  as- 
surance. The  place  seemed  fairly  full.  There  was  a  sub- 
dued hum  of  talk  and  clink  of  glasses;  waiters  hurried  to 
and  fro;  the  band  was  tuning  up,  British  uniforms  predom- 
inated, but  there  were  many  foreign  officers  and  a  few  civil- 
ians. There  were  perhaps  a  couple  of  dozen  girls  scattered 
about  the  place  besides. 

The  friends  found  a  corner  with  a  big  plush  couch  which 
took  three  of  them,  and  a  chair  for  Alex.  A  waiter  bustled 
up  and  they  ordered  drinks,  which  came  on  little  saucers 
marked  with  the  price.    Peter  lay  back  luxuriously. 

"Chin-chin,"  said  the  other  Australian,  and  the  others  re- 
sponded. 

"That's  good,"  said  Pennell. 

"Not  so  many  girls  here  this  afternoon,"  remarked  Alex 
carelessly.  "See,  Dick,  there's  that  little  Levantine  with 
the  thick  dark  hair.     She's  caught  somebody." 

Peter  looked  across  in  the  direction  indicated.  The  girl, 
in  a  cerise  costume  with  a  big  black  hat,  short  skirt,  and 
dainty  bag,  was  sitting  in  a  chair  halfway  on  to  them  and 


u8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

leaning  over  the  table  before  her.  As  he  watched,  she  threw 
her  head  back  and  laughed  softly.  He  caught  the  gleam  of 
a  white  throat  and  of  dark  sloe  eyes. 

"She's  a  pretty  one,"  said  Pcnnell.  "God!  but  they're 
queer  little  bits  of  fluff,  these  girls.  It  beats  me  how  they're 
always  gay,  and  always  easy  to  get  and  to  leave.  And  they 
get  rottenly  treated  sometimes." 

"Yes,  I'm  damned  if  I  understand  them,"  said  Alex. 
"Now,  padre,  I'll  tell  you  something  that's  more  in  your 
way  than  mine,  and  you  can  see  what  you  make  of  it.  I 
was  in  a  maison  toleree  the  other  day — you  know  the  sort 
of  thing — and  there  were  half  a  dozen  of  us  in  the  sitting- 
room  with  the  girls,  drinking  fizz.  I  had  a  little  bit  of  a 
thing  with  fair  hair — she  couldn't  have  been  more  tlian  sev- 
enteen at  most,  I  reckon — with  a  laugh  that  did  you  good 
to  hear,  and,  by  gum!  we  wanted  to  be  cheered  just  then, 
for  we  had  had  a  bit  of  a  gruelling  on  the  Ancre  and  had 
been  pulled  out  of  the  line  to  refit.  She  sat  there  with  an 
angel's  face,  a  chemise  transparent  except  where  it  was 
embroidered,  and  not  much  else,  and  some  of  the  women 
were  fair  beasts.  Well,  she  moved  on  my  knee,  and  I  spilt 
some  champagne  and  swore — 'Jesus  Christ !'  I  said.  Do  you 
know,  she  pushed  back  from  me  as  if  I  had  hit  her!  'Oh, 
don't  say  His  Name!'  she  said.  'Promise  me  you  won't 
say  it  again.  Do  you  not  know  how  He  loved  us?'  I  was 
so  taken  aback  that  I  promised,  and  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
padre,  I  haven't  said  it  since.    What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Peter  shook  his  head  and  drained  his  glass.  He  couldn't 
have  spoken  at  once ;  the  little  story,  told  in  such  a  place, 
struck  b.im  so  much.  Then  he  asked:  "But  is  that  all? 
How  did  she  come  to  be  there?" 

"Well,"  Alex  said,  "that's  just  as  strange.  Father  was 
in  a  French  cavalry  regiment,  and  got  knocked  out  on  the 
Marne.  They  lived  in  Arras  before  the  war,  and  you  can 
guess  that  there  wasn't  much  left  of  the  home.  One  much 
older  sister  was  a  widow  with  a  big  family ;  the  other  was 
a  kid  of  ten  Oi'-  eleven,  so  this  one  went  into  the  business 


'      SIMON  CALLED  PETER  119 

to  keep  the  family  going.  Fact.  The  mother  used  to  come 
and  see  her,  and  I  got  to  know  her.  She  didn't  seem  to 
mind:  said  the  doctors  looked  after  them  well,  and  the  girl 
was  making  good  money.  Hullo!"  he  broke  oflF,  "there's 
Louise,"  and  to  Peter's  horror  he  half-rose  and  smiled  across 
at  a  girl  some  few  tables  away. 

She  got  up  and  came  over,  beamed  on  them  all,  and  took 
the  seat  Alex  vacated.  "Good-evening,"  she  said,  in  fair 
English,  scrutinising  them.  "What  is  it  you  say,  'How's 
things'  ?" 

Alex  pressed  a  drink  on  her  and  beckoned  the  waiter.  She 
took  a  syrup,  the  rest  martinis.  Peter  sipped  his,  and 
watched  her  talking  to  Alex  and  Pcnnell.  The  other  Aus- 
tralian got  up  and  crossed  the  room,  and  sat  down  with 
some  other  men. 

The  stories  he  had  heard  moved  him  profoundly.  He 
wondered  if  they  were  true,  but  he  seemed  to  see  confirma- 
tion in  the  girl  before  him.  Despite  some  making  up,  it  was 
a  clean  face,  if  one  could  say  so.  She  was  laughing  and 
talking  with  all  the  case  in  the  world,  though  Peter  noticed 
that  her  eyes  kept  straying  round  the  room.  Apparently 
his  friends  had  all  her  attention,  but  he  could  see  it  was  not 
so.  She  was  on  the  watch  for  clients,  old  or  new.  He 
thought  how  such  a  girl  would  have  disgusted  him  a  few 
short  weeks  ago,  but  he  did  not  feel  disgusted  now.  He  could 
not.  He  did  not  know  what  he  felt.  He  wondered,  as  he 
looked,  if  she  were  one  of  "the  multitude,"  and  then  the 
fragment  of  a  text  slipped  through  his  brain:  "The  Friend 
of  publicans  and  sinners."  "The  Friend":  the  little  adjec- 
tive struck  him  as  never  before.  Had  they  ever  had  another  ? 
He  frowned  to  himself  at  the  thought,  and  could  not  help 
wondering  vaguely  what  his  Vicar  or  the  Canon  would  have 
done  in  Travalini's.  Then  he  wondered  instantly  what  that 
Other  would  have  done,  and  he  found  no  answer  at  all. 

"Yes,  but  I  do  not  know  your  friend  yet,"  he  heard  the 
girl  say,  and  saw  she  was  being  introduced  to  Pennell.  She 
held  out  a  decently  gloved  hand  with  a  gesture  that  startled 


I20  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

him — it  was  so  like  Hilda's.  Hilda!  The  comparison  dazecl 
him.  He  fancied  he  could  see  her  utter  disgust,  and  then 
he  involuntarily  shook  his  head ;  it  would  be  too  great  for 
him  to  imagine.  What  would  she  have  made  of  the  story  he 
had  just  heard?  He  concluded  she  would  flatly  disbelieve 
it.  .  .  . 

But  Julie?  He  smiled  to  himself,  and  then,  for  the  first 
time,  suddenly  asked  himself  what  he  really  felt  towards 
Julie.  He  remembered  that  first  night  and  the  kiss,  and 
how  he  had  half  hated  it,  half  liked  it.  He  felt  now,  chiefly, 
anger  that  Donovan  had  had  one  too.  One  ?  But  he,  Peter, 
had  had  two.  .  .  .  Then  he  called  himself  a  damned  fool; 
it  was  all  of  a  piece  with  her  extravagant  and  utterly  un- 
conventional madness.  But  what,  then,  would  she  say  to 
this?     Had  she  an>'thing  in  common  with  it? 

He  played  with  that  awhile,  blowing  out  thoughtful  rings 
of  smoke.  It  struck  him  that  she  had,  but  he  was  fully 
aware  that  that  did  not  disgust  him  in  the  least.  It  almost 
fascinated  him,  just  as — that  7cas  it — Hilda's  disgust  would 
repel  him.     Why?     He  hadn't  an  idea. 

"Monsieur  Ic  Capitaine  is  very  dull,"  said  a  girl's  voice 
at  his  elbow.  He  started:  Ix>uise  had  moved  to  the  sofa 
arid  was  smiling  at  him.  He  glanced  towards  his  compan- 
ions. Alex  was  standing,  finishing  a  last  drink ;  Pennell 
staring  at  Ionise. 

He  looked  back  at  the  girl,  straight  into  her  eyes,  and 
could  not  read  them  in  the  least.  The  darkened  eyebrows 
and  the  glitter  in  them  bafilcd  him.  But  he  must  speak.  "Am 
I?"  he  said.     "Forgive  me,  mademoiselle;  I  was  thinking." 

"Of  your  fiancee — is  it  not  so  ?  Ah !  The  Capitaine  has 
his  fiancee,  then?  In  England?  Ah,  well,  the  girls  in 
England  do  not  sutler  like  we  girls  in  France.  .  .  .  They 
are  proud,  too,  the  English  misses.  I  know,  for  I  have  been 
there,  to — how  do  you  call  it? — Folkestone.  They  walk 
with  the  head  in  the  air,"  and  she  tilted  up  her  chin  so  com- 
ically that  Peter  smiled  involuntarily. 

"No,  I  do  not  like  them."  went  on  the  girl  deliberately. 


.     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  121 

"They  are  only  half  alive,  I  think.  I  almost  wish  the  Boche 
had  been  in  your  land.  .  .  .  They  are  cold,  la!  And  not 
so  very  nice  to  kiss,  eh?" 

"They're  not  all  like  that,"  said  Pennell. 

"Ah,  non?  But  you  like  the  girls  of  France  the  best, 
mon  ami;  is  it  not  so?"  She  leaned  across  towards  liim 
significantly. 

Pennell  laughed.  "Now,  yes,  perhaps,"  he  said  deliber- 
ately; "but  after  the  war  .  .  ."  and  he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, like  a  Frenchman. 

A  shade  passed  over  the  girl's  face,  and  she  got  up,  "It 
is  so,"  she  said  lightly.  "Monsieur  speaks  very  true — oh, 
very  true!  The  girls  of  France  now — they  are  gay,  they  are 
alive,  they  smile,  and  it  is  war,  and  you  men  want  these 
things.  But  after — oh,  I  know  you  English — you'll  go 
home  and  be — how  do  you  say  ? — 'respectable,'  and  marry  an 
English  miss,  and  have — oh !  many,  many  bebes,  and  wear 
the  top-hat,  and  go  to  church.  There  is  no  country  like 
England.  .  .  ."  She  made  a  little  gesture.  "What  do  you 
believe,  you  English?  In  le  bon  Dieu?  Non.  In  love? 
Ah,  non  !  In  what,  then?  Jenesais!"  She  laughed  again. 
"What  'ave  I  said?  Forgive  me,  monsieur,  and  you  also. 
Monsieur  le  Capitaine.  But  I  do  see  a  friend  of  mine.  See, 
I  go!    Bon  soir." 

She  looked  deliberately  at  Peter  a  moment,  then  smiled 
comprehensively  and  left  them.  Peter  saw  that  Alex  had 
gone  already ;  he  asked  no  questions,  but  looked  at  Pennell 
inquiringly. 

"I  think  so,  padre;  I've  had  enough  of  it  to-night.  Let's 
dear.     We  can  get  back  in  time  for  mess," 

They  went  out  into  the  darkening  streets,  crossed  an 
open  square,  and  turned  down  a  busy  road  to  the  docks. 
They  walked  quickly,  but  Peter  seemed  to  himself  conscious 
of  everyone  that  passed.  He  scanned  faces,  as  if  to  read  a 
riddle  in  them.  There  were  men  who  lounged  by,  gay,  reck- 
less, out  for  fun  plainly,  but  without  any  other  sinister 
thought,  apparently.    There  were  Tommies  who  saluted  and 


122  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

trudged  on  heavily.  There  were  a  couple  of  Yorkshire  boys 
who  did  not  notice  them,  flushed,  animal,  making  determin- 
edly for  a  destination  down  the  street.  There  was  one  man 
at  least  who  passed  walking  alone,  with  a  tense,  greedy,  hard 
face,  and  Peter  all  but  shuddered. 

The  lit  shops  gave  way  to  a  railed  space,  dark  by  contrast, 
and  a  tall  building  of  old  blackened  stone,  here  and  there 
chipped  white,  loomed  up.  Moved  by  an  impulse,  Peter 
paused.  "Let's  see  if  it's  open,  Pennell,"  he  said.  "Do 
you  mind?     I  won't  be  a  second." 

"Not  a  scrap,  old  man,"  said  Pennell,    "Pll  come  in  too." 

Peter  walked  up  to  a  padded  leather-covered  door  and 
pushed.  It  swung  open.  They  stepped  in,  into  a  faintly 
broken  silence,  and  stood  still. 

Objects  loomed  up  indistinctly — great  columns,  altars, 
pews.  Far  away  a  light  flickered  and  twinkled,  and  from 
the  top  of  the  aisle  across  the  church  from  the  door  by  which 
they  had  entered  a  radiance  glowed  and  lost  itself  in  the 
black  spaces  of  the  high  roof  and  wide  nave.  Peter  crossed 
towards  that  side,  and  his  companion  followed.  They  trod 
softly,  like  good  Englishmen  in  church,  and  they  moved  up 
the  aisle  a  little  to  sec  more  clearly;  and  sd,  having  reached 
a  place  from  which  much  was  visible,  remained  standing  for 
a  few  seconds. 

The  light  streamed  from  an  altar,  and  from  candles  above 
it  set  around  a  figure  of  the  Mother  of  God.  In  front 
knelt  a  priest,  and  behind  him,  straggling  back  in  the  pews, 
a  score  or  so  of  women,  some  children,  and  a  blue-coated 
French  soldier  or  two.  The  priest's  voice  sounded  thin 
and  low :  neither  could  hear  what  he  said ;  the  congregation 
made  rapid  responses  regularly,  but  eliding  the,  to  them, 
familiar  words.  There  was,  tlien,  the  murmur  of  repeated 
prayer,  like  muffled  knocking  on  a  door,  and  nothing  more, 

"Let's  go,"  whispered  Pennell  at  last. 

They  went  out,  and  shut  the  door  softly  behind  them.  As 
they  did  so,  some  otlier  door  was  opened  noisily  and  banged, 
while  footsteps  began  to  drag  slowly  across  the  stone  floor 


^     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  I2J 

and  up  the  aisle  they  had  come  down.  The  new-comer  sub- 
sided into  a  pew  with  a  clatter  on  the  boards,  but  the  mur- 
mured prayers  went  on  unbroken. 

Outside  the  street  engulfed  them.  The  same  faces  passed 
by.  A  street-car  banged  and  clattered  up  towards  the  centre 
of  the  town,  packed  with  jovial  people.  Pennell  looked 
towards  it  half  longingly.  "Great  Scott,  Graham!  I  wish, 
aow,  we  hadn't  come  away  so  soon,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  lower  valley  of  the  Seine  is  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful and  interesting  river-stretches  in  Northern  Eu- 
rope. It  was  the  High  Stroet  of  old  Normandy,  and  feudal 
barons  and  medieval  monks  have  left  their  mark  upon  it. 
From  the  castle  of  Tancarville  to  the  abbey  of  Juniieges 
you  can  read  the  story  of  their  doings ;  or  when  you  stand 
in  the  Roman  circus  at  Lillebonnc,  or  enter  the  ancient 
cloister  of  M.  Maeterlinck's  modern  residence  at  St.  Wan- 
drille,  see  plainly  enough  the  writing  of  a  still  older  legend, 
isuch  as  appeared,  once,  on  the  wall  of  a  palace  in  Babylon. 
On  the  left  bank  steep  hills,  originally  wholly  clothed  with 
forest  and  still  thickly  wooded,  run  down  to  the  river  with 
few  breaks  in  them,  each  break,  however,  being  garrisoned 
by  an  ancient  town.  Of  these,  Caudebec  stands  unrivalled. 
On  the  right  bank  the  flat  plain  of  Normandy  stretches  to 
the  sky-line,  pink-and-white  in  spring  with  miles  of  apple- 
orchards.  The  white  clouds  chase  across  its  fair  blue  skv, 
driven  by  the  winds  from  the  sea,  and  tall  p<3plars  rise  in 
their  uniform  rows  along  the  river  as  if  to  guard  a  Paradise. 

Caudebec  can  be  reached  from  Le  Havre  in  a  few  hours, 
and  although  cars  for  hire  and  petrol  were  not  abundant  in 
France  at  the  time,  one  could  find  a  chauffeur  to  make  the 
journey  if  one  was  prepared  to  pay.  Given  fine  weather,  it 
was  an  ideal  place  for  a  day  off  in  the  spring.  And  Peter 
knew  it. 

In  the  Grand  Magasin  Julie  had  talked  of  a  day  off,  and 
a  party  of  four  had  been  mooted,  but  when  he  had  leisure 
to  think  of  it,  Peter  found  himself  averse  to  four,  and  par- 
ticularly if  one  of  the  four  were  to  be  Donovan.  He  ad- 
mitted it  freely  to  himself.     Donovan  was  the  kind  of  a 

124 


-     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  125 

man,  he  thought,  that  Julie  must  like,  and  he  was  the  kind 
of  man,  too,  to  put  him,  Peter,  into  the  shade.  Ordinarily 
he  asked  for  no  better  companion,  but  he  hated  to  see  Julie 
and  Jack  together.  He  could  not  make  the  girl  out,  and 
he  wanted  to  do  so.  He  wanted  to  know  what  she  thought 
about  many  things,  and — incidentally,  of  course — what  she 
thought  about  him. 

He  had  argued  all  this  over  next  morning  while  shaving, 
and  had  ended  by  cutting  himself.  It  was  a  slight  matter, 
but  it  argued  a  certain  absent-mindedness,  and  it  brought 
him  back  to  decency.  He  perceived  that  he  was  scheming 
to  leave  his  friend  out,  and  he  fought  resolutely  against  the 
idea.  Therefore,  that  afternoon,  he  went  to  the  hospital, 
spent  a  couple  of  hours  chatting  »vith  the  men,  and  hnally 
wound  up  in  the  nurses'  mess-room  for  tea  as  usual.  It 
was  a  little  room,  long  and  narrow,  at  the  end  of  the  biggest 
ward,  but  its  windows  looked  over  the  sea  and  it  was  con- 
venient to  the  kitchen.  Coloured  illustrations  cut  from 
magazines  and  neatly  mounted  on  brown  paper  decorated 
the  walls,  but  there  was  little  else  by  way  of  furniture  or 
ornament  except  a  long  table  and  chairs.  One  could  get  but 
little  talk  except  of  a  scrappy  kind,  for  nurses  came  contmu- 
ally  in  and  out  for  tea,  and,  indeed,  Julie  had  only  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  to  spare.  But  he  got  things  fixed  up  for  the 
following  Thursday,  and  he  left  the  place  to  settle  with 
Donovan. 

That  gentleman's  company  of  native  labour  was  lodged 
a  mile  or  so  through  the  docks  from  Peter's  camp,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Tancarville  Canal.  It  was  enlivened  at  fre- 
quent intervals,  day  and  night,  by  the  sirens  of  tugs  bring- 
ing strings  of  barges  to  the  docks,  whence  their  cargo  was 
borne  overseas  in  the  sea-going  tramps,  or,  of  course,  taking 
equally  long  strings  to  the  Seine  for  Rouen  and  Paris.  It 
was  mud  and  cinders  underfoot,  and  it  was  walled  off  with 
corrugated-iron  sheeting  and  barbed  wire  from  the  atten- 
tions of  some  hundreds  of  Belgian  refugees  who  lived  along 
the  canal  and  parallel  roads  in  every  conceivable  kind  of 


126  SIMOX  CALLED  PETER 

resting-place,  from  ancient  bathing-vans  to  broken-down 
railway-trucks.  But  tliere  were  trees  along  the  canal  and 
reeds  and  grass,  so  that  there  were  worse  places  tlian  Dono- 
van's camp  in  Le  Havre. 

Peter  found  his  friend  surveying  the  endeavours  of  a  gang 
of  boys  to  construct  a  raised  causeway  from  the  officers' 
mess  to  the  orderly-room,  and  he  promptly  broached  his 
object.  Donovan  was  entranced  with  the  proposal,  but  he 
could  not  go.  He  was  adamant  upon  it.  He  could  possibly 
have  got  off,  but  it  meant  leaving  his  something  camp  for  a 
whole  day,  and  just  at  present  he  couldn't.  Peter  could 
get  Pennell  or  anyone.  Another  time,  perhaps,  but  not  now. 
For  thus  can  the  devil  trap  his  victims. 

Peter  pushed  back  for  home  on  his  bicycle,  but  stopped  at 
the  ducks  on  his  way  to  look  up  Pennell.  That  gentleman 
was  bored,  weary,  and  inclined  to  be  blasphemous.  It  ap- 
peared that  for  the  whole  infernal  day  he  had  had  to  watch 
the  oti-loading  of  motor-spares,  that  he  had  had  no  lunch, 
and  that  he  could  not  get  away  for  a  day  next  week  if  he 
tried.  "It  isn't  everyone  can  get  a  day  off  whenever  he 
wants  to,  padre,"  he  said.  "In  the  next  war  I  shall  be  .  .  ." 
Peter  turned  hard  on  his  heel,  and  left  liini  complaining  to 
the  derricks. 

He  was  now  all  but  cornered.  There  was  nobody  else 
he  particularly  cared  to  ask  unless  it  were  Arnold,  and  he 
could  not  imagine  Arnold  and  Julie  together.  It  appeared 
to  him  that  fate  was  on  his  side ;  it  only  remained  to  per- 
suade Julie  to  come  alone.  He  pedalled  back  to  mess  and 
dinner,  and  then,  about  half -past  eight,  strolled  round  to  the 
hospital  again.  It  was  late,  of  course,  but  he  was  a  padre, 
and  the  hospital  padre,  and  privileged.  He  knew  exactly 
what  to  do,  and  that  he  was  really  as  safe  as  houses  in  doing 
it,  and  yet  this  intriguing  by  night  made  him  uncomfortable 
still.  He  told  himself  he  was  an  ass  to  think  so,  but  he  could 
not  get  rid  of  tlie  sensation. 

Julie  would  be  on  duty  till  9.30,  and  he  could  easily  have 
a  couple  of  minutes'  conversation  with  her  in  the  ward.    He 


,    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  127 

followed  the  railway-track,  then,  along  the  harbour,  and 
went  in  under  the  great  roof  of  the  empty  station.  On  the 
far  platform  a  hospital  train  was  being  made  ready  for  its 
return  run,  but,  except  for  a  few  cleaners  and  orderlies,  the 
place  was  empty. 

An  iron  stairway  led  up  from  the  platform  to  the  wards 
above.  He  ascended,  and  found  himself  on  a  landing  with 
the  door  of  the  theatre  open  before  him.  There  was  a  light 
in  it,  and  he  caught  the  sound  of  water;  some  pro.  was 
cleaning  up.  He  moved  down  the  passage  and  cautiously 
opened  the  door  of  the  ward. 

It  was  shaded  and  still.  Somewhere  a  man  breathed 
heavily,  and  another  turned  in  his  sleep.  Just  beyond  the 
red  glow  of  the  stove,  with  the  empty  armchairs  in  a  circle 
before  it,  were  screens  from  which  came  a  subdued  light. 
He  walked  softly  between  the  beds  towards  them,  and  looked 
over  the  top. 

Inside  was  a  little  sanctum :  a  desk  with  a  shaded  reading- 
lamp,  a  chair,  a  couch,  a  little  table  with  flowers  upon  it  and 
a  glass  and  jug,  and  on  the  floor  by  the  couch  a  work- 
basket.  Julie  was  at  the  desk  writing  in  a  big  official  book, 
and  he  watched  her  for  a  moment  unobserved.  It  was  almost 
as  if  he  saw  a  different  person  from  the  girl  he  knew.  She 
was  at  work,  and  a  certain  hidden  sadness  showed  clearly 
in  her  face.  But  the  little  brown  fringe  of  hair  on  her  fore- 
head and  the  dimpled  chin  were  the  same.  .  .  . 

"Good-evening,"  he  whispered. 

She  looked  up  quickly,  with  a  start,  and  he  noticed  curi- 
ously how  rapidly  the  laughter  came  back  to  her  face.  "You 
did  startle  me,  Solomon,"  she  said.     "What  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you  a  minute  about  Thursday,"  he 
said.     "Can  I  come  in?" 

She  got  up  and  came  round  the  screens.  "Follow  me," 
she  said,  "and  don't  make  a  noise." 

She  led  him  across  the  ward  to  the  wide  verandah,  open- 
ing the  door  carefully  and  leaving  it  open  behind  her,  and 
then  walked  to  the  balustrade  and  glanced  down.    The  hos- 


128  SIMON  C'iLLED  PETER 

pital  ship  had  gone,  and  there  was  no  one  visible  on  the 
wharf.  The  stars  were  hidden,  and  tiiere  was  a  suggestion 
of  mist  on  the  harbour,  through  which  the  distant  lights 
seemed  to  flicker. 

"You're  coming  on,  Solomon,"  she  said  mockingly. 
"Never  tell  me  you'd  have  dared  to  call  on  the  hospital  to 
see  a  nurse  by  night  a  few  weeks  ago !  Supix)se  matron 
came  round?     There  is  no  dangerous  case  in  my  ward." 

"Not  among  the  men,  perhaps,"  said  Peter  mischievously. 
"But,  look  here,  about  Thursday :  Donovan  can't  go,  nor 
Pennell,  and  I  don't  know  anyone  else  I  want  to  ask." 

"Well,  ril  see  if  I  can  raise  a  man.  One  or  two  of  the 
doctors  are  fairly  decent,  or  I  can  get  a  convalescent  out 
of  the  officers'  hospital." 

She  had  the  lights  behind  her,  antl  he  could  not  see  her 
face,  but  he  knew  she  was  laughing  at  him,  and  it  spurred 
him  on.  "Don't  rag,  Julie,"  he  said.  "You  know  I  want 
you  to  come  alone." 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  Then :  "I  can't  cut 
Tommy,"  she  said. 

"Not  for  once?"  he  urged.  She  turned  away  from  him 
and  looked  down  at  the  water.  It  is  curious  how  there 
come  moments  of  apprehension  in  all  our  lives  when  we 
want  a  thing,  but  know  quite  well  we  are  mad  to  want  it. 
Julie  looked  into  tlie  future  for  a  few  seconds,  and  saw 
plainly,  but  would  not  believe  what  she  saw. 

When  she  turned  back  she  had  her  old  manner  completely. 
"You're  a  dear  old  thing,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  do  it.  But 
if  it  gets  out  that  I  gadded  about  for  a  day  with  an  officer, 
£ven  though  he  is  a  padre,  and  that  we  went  miles  out  of 
iown,  tliere'll  be  some  row,  my  boy.  Quick  now !  I  must  get 
back.     What's  the  plan?" 

"Thanks  awfully,"  said  Peter.  "It  will  be  a  rag.  What 
ime  can  you  get  off?" 

"Oh,  after  breakfast  easily — say  eight-thirty." 

"Right.    Well,  take  the  tram-car  to  Harfleur — you  know? 


'  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  129 

' — as  far  as  it  goes.  I'll  be  at  the  terminus  with  a  car. 
What  time  must  you  be  in?" 

"I  can  get  late  leave  till  ten,  I  think,"  she  said. 

"Good !  That  gives  us  heaps  of  time.  We'll  lunch  and 
tea  in  Caudebec,  and  have  some  sandwiches  for  the  road 
home." 

"And  if  the  car  breaks  down?" 

"It  won't,"  said  Peter.  "You're  lucky  in  love,  aren't 
you?" 

She  did  not  laugh.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "Good- 
night." 

And  then  Peter  had  walked  home,  thinking  of  Hilda.  And 
he  had  sat  by  the  sea,  and  come  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
was  a  rotter,  but  in  tiie  web  of  Fate  and  much  to  be  pitied, 
which  is  like  a  man.  And  then  he  had  played  auction  till 
midnight  and  lost  ten  francs,  and  gone  to  bed  concluding 
that  he  was  certainly  unlucky — at  cards. 

As  Peter  sat  in  his  car  at  the  Harfleur  terminus  that 
Thursday  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  was  largely  indifferent 
^o  the  beauties  of  the  Seine  Valley  that  he  had  professedly 
come  to  see.  He  was  nervous,  to  begin  with,  lest  he  should 
be  recognised  by  anyone,  and  he  was  in  one  of  his  troubled 
moods.  But  he  had  not  long  to  wait.  The  tram  came  out, 
and  he  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  walked  to  meet  the 
passengers. 

Julie  looked  very  smart  in  the  grey  with  its  touch  of  scar- 
let, but  she  was  discontented  with  it.  "If  only  I  could  put 
on  a  few  glad  rags,"  she  said  as  she  climbed  into  the  car, 
"this  would  be  perfect.  You  men  can't  know  how  a  girl 
comes  to  hate  uniform.  It's  not  bad  occasionally,  but  if  you 
have  to  wear  it  always  it  spoils  chances.  But  I've  got  my 
new  shoes  and  silk  stockings  on,"  she  added,  sticking  out 
a  neat  ankle,  "and  my  skirt  is  not  vastly  long,  is  it  ?  Besides, 
underneath,  if  it's  any  consolation  to  you,  I've  really  pretty 
things.  Uniform  or  not,  I  see  no  reason  why  one  should 
not  feel  joyful  next  the  skin.    What  do  you  think?" 


130  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Peter  agreed  heartily,  and  tucked  a  rug  round  her. 
"There's  the  more  need  for  this,  then,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know :  silk  always  makes  me  feel  so  com- 
fortable that  I  can't  be  cold.  Isn't  it  a  heavenly  day?  We 
are  lucky,  you  know ;  it  might  have  been  beastly.  Lor',  but 
I'm  going  to  enjoy  myself  to-day,  my  dear!  I  warn  you. 
I've  got  to  forget  how  Tommy  looked  when  I  put  her  oflf 
with  excuses.     I  felt  positively  mean." 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  Peter. 

"That  she  didn't  mind  at  all,  as  she  had  got  to  write  let- 
ters," said  Julie.  "Solomon,  Tommy's  a  damned  good  sort ! 
.  .  .  Give  us  a  cigarette,  and  don't  look  blue.  We're  right 
out  of  town." 

Peter  got  out  his  case.  "Don't  call  me  Solomon  to-day," 
he  said. 

Julie  threw  herself  back  in  her  corner  and  shrieked  with 
laughter.  The  French  chauffeur  glanced  round  and  gri- 
maced appreciatively,  and  Peter  felt  a  fool.  "What  am  I  to 
call  you,  then?"  she  demanded.  "You  are  a  funny  old  thing, 
and  now  you  look  more  of  a  Solomon  than  ever." 

"Call  me  Peter,"  he  said. 

She  looked  at  him,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  amusement. 
"I'm  really  beginning  to  enjoy  myself,"  she  said.  "But, 
look  here,  you  mustn't  begin  like  tliis.  How  in  the  world 
do  you  think  we  shall  end  up  if  you  do?  You'll  have 
nothing  left  to  say,  and  I  shall  be  worn  to  a  rag  and  a 
temper  warding  oil  your  sentimentality." 

"Julie,"  said  Peter,  "are  you  ever  serious?  I  can't  help 
it,  you  know.  I  suppose  because  I  am  a  parson,  though 
I  am  such  a  rotten  one." 

"Who  says  you're  a  rotten  one?" 

"Everybody  who  tells  the  truth,  and,  besides,  I  know  it. 
1  feel  an  absolute  stummer  when  I  go  around  the  wards.  I 
never  can  say  a  word  to  the  men." 

"They  like  you  awfully.  You  know  little  Jimmy,  that 
kiddie  who  came  in  the  other  day  who's  always  such  a 
brick?     Well,  last  night  I   went  and  sat  with  him  a  bit 


V  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  131 

because  he  was  in  such  pain.  I  told  him  where  I  was  going 
to-day  as  a  secret.     What  do  you  think  he  said  about  you?" 

"I  don't  want  to  know,"  said  Peter  hastily. 

"Well,  you  shall.  Pie  said  if  more  parsons  were  lik^ 
you,  more  men  would  go  to  church.  What  do  you  make  ot 
that,  old  Solomon?" 

"It  isn't  txue  to  start  with.  A  few  might  come  for  a 
little,  but  they  would  soon  fall  off.  And  if  they  didn't,  they'd 
get  no  good.    I  don't  know  what  to  say  to  them." 

Julie  threw  away  her  cigarette-stump,  "One  sees  a  lot 
of  human  nature  in  hospitals,  my  boy,"  she  said,  "and  it 
doesn't  leave  one  with  many  illusions.  But  from  what  I've 
seen,  I  should  say  nobudy  does  much  good  by  talking." 

"You  don't  understand,"  said  Peter.  "Look  here,  I 
shouldn't  call  you  religious  in  a  way  at  all.  Don't  be  angry. 
I  don't  knozi',  but  I  don't  think  so,  and  I  don't  think  you  can 
possibly  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  used  to  do  the  flowers  in  church  regularly  at  home," 
she  said.    "I  believe  in  God,  though  you  think  I  don't." 

Peter  sighed.  "Let's  change  the  subject/'  he  said.  "Have 
you  seen  any  more  of  that  Australian  chap  lately?" 

"Rather!  He's  engaged  to  a  girl  I  know,  and  I  reckon 
I'm  doing  her  a  good  turn  by  sticking  to  him.  He's  a  bit  of 
a  devil,  you  know,  but  I  think  I  can  keep  him  off  the  French 
girls  a  bit." 

Peter  looked  at  her  curiously.  "You  know  what  he  is, 
and  you  don't  mind  then?"  he  said. 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  she  replied.  "My  dear  boy,  I  know 
what  men  are.  It  isn't  in  their  nature  to  stick  to  one  girl 
only.  He  loves  Edie  all  right,  and  he'll  make  her  a  good 
husband  one  day,  if  she  isn't  too  particular  and  inquisitive. 
If  I  were  married,  I'd  give  my  husband  absolute  liberty — 
and  I'd  expect  it  in  return.  But  I  shall  never  marry.  There 
isn't  a  man  who  can  play  fair.  They'll  take  their  own 
pleasures,  but  they  are  all  as  jealous  as  possible.  I've  seen  it 
hundreds  of  times." 

"You  amaze  me,"  said  Peter.     "Let's  talk  straight.     Do 


132  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

you  mean  to  say  that  if  you  were  married  and  your  hus- 
band ran  up  to  Paris  for  a  fortnight,  and  you  knew  exactly 
what  he'd  gone  for,  you  wouldn't  mind?" 

"No,"  she  declared  roundly.  "I  wouldn't.  He'd  come 
back  all  the  more  fond  of  me.  Pd  know  Pd  be  a  fool  to 
expect  anything  else." 

Peter  stared  at  her.  She  was  unlike  an)'thing  he  had  ever 
seen.  Pier  moral  standards,  if  she  had  any,  he  added  men- 
tally, were  so  different  from  his  own  that  he  was  absolutely 
floored.  He  thought  grimly  that  alone  in  a  motor-car  he 
had  got  among  the  multitude  with  a  vengeance.  "Have  you 
ever  lieen  in  love?"  he  demanded. 

She  laughed.  "Solomon,  you're  the  quaintest  creature. 
Do  you  think  Pd  tell  you  if  I  had  been?  You  never  ought 
to  ask  anyone  that.  But  if  you  want  to  know,  I've  been  in 
love  hundreds  of  times.  It's  a  queer  disease,  but  not  seri- 
ous— at  least,  not  if  you  don't  take  it  too  seriously." 

"You  don't  know  what  love  is  at  all,"  he  said. 

She  faced  him  fairly  and  unashamed.  "I  do,"  she  said. 
"It's  an  animal  passion  for  the  purpose  of  populating  the 
earth.  And  if  you  ask  me,  I  think  it  is  rather  a  dirty  trick 
on  the  part  of  God." 

"You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said,  distressed. 

She  laughed  again  merrily,  and  slipped  her  hand  into  his 
under  the  rug.  "Peter,"  she  said — "there,  am  I  not  good? 
You  aren't  made  to  worry  about  these  things.  I  don't  know 
that  anyone  is.  We  can't  help  ourselves,  and  the  best 
thing  is  to  take  our  pleasures  when  we  can  find  them.  1 
suppose  you'll  be  shocked  at  me,  but  I'm  not  going  to  pre- 
tend. I  wasn't  built  that  way.  If  this  were  a  closed  car 
I'd  give  you  a  kiss." 

"I  don't  want  that  sort  of  a  kiss,"  he  said.  "That  was 
what  you  gave  me  the  other  night.     I  want  .  .  ." 

"You  don't  know  what  you  want,  my  dear,  though  you 
think  you  do.  You  shouldn't  be  so  serious.  I'm  sure  I  kiss 
very  nicely — plenty  of  men  think  so,  anyway,  and  if  there 
is  nothing  in  that  sort  of  kiss,  why  not  kiss?     Is  there  a 


:  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  133 

Commandment  against  it?  I  suppose  our  grandmothers 
thought  so,  but  we  don't.  Besides,  I've  been  east  of  Suez, 
where  there  ain't  no  ten  Commandments.  There's  only  one 
real  lule  left  in  life  for  most  of  us,  Peter,  and  that's  this: 
'Be  a  good  pal,  and  don't  worry.'  " 

Peter  sighed.  "You  and  I  were  turned  out  differently, 
Julie,"  he  sdd.  "But  I  like  you  awfully.  You  attract  me 
so  much  that  I  don't  know  how  to  express  it.  There's 
nothing  mean  about  you,  and  nothing  sham.  And  I  admire 
your  pluck  beyond  words.  It  seems  to  me  that  you've 
looked  life  in  the  face  and  laughed.  Anybody  can  laugh  at 
death,  but  very  few  of  us  at  life.  I  think  I'm  terrified  of  it. 
And  that's  the  awful  part  about  it  all,  for  I  ought  to  know 
the  secret,  and  I  don't.  I  feel  an  absolute  hypocrite  at  times 
— when  I  take  a  service,  for  example.  I  talk  about  things 
I  don't  understand  in  the  least,  even  about  God,  and  I  begin 
to  think  I  know  nothing  about  Him.  .  .  ."  He  broke  off, 
utterly  miserable. 

"Poor  old  boy,"  she  said  softly;  "is  it  as  bad  as  that?" 

He  turned  to  her  fiercely.  "You  darling!"  he  said,  car- 
ried away  by  her  tone.  "I  believe  I'd  rather  have  you  than — ■ 
than  God!" 

She  did  not  move  in  her  corner,  nor  did  she  smile  now. 
"I  wonder,"  she  said  slowly.  "Peter,  it's  you  that  hate 
shams,  not  I.  It's  you  that  are  brave,  not  I.  I  play  with 
shams  because  I  know  they're  shams,  but  I  like  playing 
with  them.  But  you  are  greater  than  I.  You  are  not  con- 
tent with  playing.  One  of  these  days — oh,  I  don't  know. 
.  .  ."     She  broke  off  and  looked  away. 

Peter  gripped  her  hand  tightly.  "Don't,  little  girl,"  he 
said.  "Let's  forget  for  to-day.  Look  at  those  primroses; 
they're  the  first  I've  seen.    Aren't  they  heavenly?" 

They  ran  into  Caudebec  in  good  time,  and  lunched  at  an 
hotel  overlooking  the  river,  with  great  enthusiasm.  To 
Peter  it  was  utterly  delicious  to  have  her  by  him.  She  was 
as  gay  as  she  could  possibly  be,  and  made  fun  over  every- 
thing.    Sitting  daintily  before  him,  her  daring,  unconven- 


134  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

tional  talk  carried  him  away.  She  chose  the  wine,  and  after 
dejeuner  sat  witli  licr  elbows  on  the  table,  puffing  at  a 
cigarette,  her  brown  eyes  alight  with  mischief,  apparently 
without  a  thought  for  to-morrow. 

"Oh,  I  say,"  she  said,  "do  look  at  that  party  in  the  cor- 
ner. The  old  ^L1jor's  well  away,  and  the  girl'll  have  a 
job  to  keep  him  in  hand.  I  wonder  where  they're  from? 
Rouen,  perhaps ;  there  was  a  car  at  the  door.  What  do 
you  think  of  the  girl?" 

Peter  glanced  back.  "No  better  than  she  ought  to  be,"  he 
said. 

"No,  I  don't  suppose  so,  but  they  arc  gay,  these  French 
girls.  I  don't  wonder  men  like  them.  And  they  have  a 
hard  time.  Pd  g^ve  them  a  leg  up  any  day  if  I  could.  I 
can't,  though,  so  if  ever  you  get  a  chance  do  it  for  me,  will 
you  ?" 

Peter  assented.  "Come  on."  he  said.  "Finish  tliat  glass 
if  you  think  you  can,  and  let's  get  out." 

"Here's  the  best,  then.  Pve  done.  What  are  we  going 
to  sec?" 

For  a  couple  of  hours  they  wandered  round  the  old  town, 
with  its  narrow  streets  and  even  fifteenth-century  houses, 
whose  backs  actually  leaned  over  the  swift  little  river  that 
ran  all  but  under  the  place  to  the  Seine.  They  penetrated 
through  an  oUl  mill  to  its  back  j)rcmises,  and  climbed  precari- 
ously round  the  water-wheel  to  reach  a  little  moss-grown 
platform  from  which  the  few  remaining  massive  stones  of 
the  Norman  wall  and  castle  could  still  be  seen.  The  old 
abbey  kept  them  a  good  while.  Julie  interested  Peter  enor- 
mously as  they  walked  about  its  cool  aisles,  and  tried  to  make 
out  the  legends  of  its  ancient  glass.  She  had  nothing  of 
that  curious  kind  of  shyness  most  people  have  in  a  church, 
and  that  he  would  certainly  have  expected  of  her.  She 
joked  and  laughed  a  little  in  it — at  a  queer  row  of  mutilated 
statues  packed  into  a  kind  of  chapel  to  keep  quiet  out  of 
the  way  till  wanted,  at  the  vivid  red  of  the  Red  Sea  en- 
gulfing Pharaoh  and  all  his  host — but  not  in  the  least  ir- 


.    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  135 

reverently.  He  recalled  a  saying  of  a  book  he  had  once 
read  in  which  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  had  defended  the 
liomeliness  of  an  Italian  congregation  by  saying  that  it  was 
right  for  them  to  be  at  home  in  their  Father's  House.  It 
was  almost  as  if  Julie  were  at  home,  yet  he  shrank  from 
the  inference. 

She  was  jentirely  ignorant  of  everything,  except  perhaps, 
of  a  little  biblical  history,  but  she  made  a  most  interested 
audience.  Once  he  thought  she  was  perhaps  egging  him 
on  for  his  own  pleasure,  but  when  he  grew  more  silent  she 
urged  him  to  explain.  "It's  ripping  going  round  with  some- 
body who  knows  something,"  she  said.  "Most  of  the  men 
one  meets  know  absolutely  nothing.  They're  very  jolly,  but 
one  gets  tired.     I  could  listen  to  you  for  ages." 

Peter  assured  her  that  he  was  almost  as  ignorant  as  they, 
but  she  was  shrewdly  insistent.  "You  read  more,  and  you 
understand  what  you  read,"  she  said.  "Most  people  don't. 
I  know." 

They  bougiit  picture  post-cards  of  a  queer  old  woman 
a  a  peasant  head-dress,  and  then  came  back  to  the  river 
and  sat  under  the  shade  of  a  line  of  great  trees  to  wait  for 
the  tea  the  hotel  had  guaranteed  them.  Julie  now  did  all 
the  talking — of  South  Africa,  of  gay  adventures  in  France 
and  on  the  voyage,  and  of  the  men  she  had  met.  She  was 
as  frank  as  possible,  but  Peter  wondered  how  far  he  was 
getting  to  know  the  real  girl. 

Tea  was  an  unusual  success  for  France.  It  was  real  tea, 
but  then  there  was  reason  for  that,  for  Julie  had  insisted 
on  going  into  the  big  kitchen,  to  madame's  amusement  and 
monsieur's  open  admiration,  and  making  it  herself.  But 
the  chocolate  cakes,  the  white  bread  and  proper  butter,  and 
the  cream,  were  a  miracle.  Peter  wondered  if  you  could 
get  such  things  in  England  now,  and  Julie  gaily  told  him 
that  the  French  made  laws  only  to  break  them,  with  several 
instances  thereof.  She  declared  tliat  if  a  food-ration  officer 
existed  in  Caudebec  he  must  be  in  love  with  the  landlady's 
daughter  and  that  she  only  wished  she  could  get  to  know 


136  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

such  an  official  in  Havre.  The  daughter  in  question  waited 
on  them,  and  Julie  and  she  chummed  up  immensely.  Finally 
she  was  despatched  to  produce  a  collection  of  Army  badges 
and  buttons — scalps  Julie  called  them.  When  they  came  they 
turned  them  over.  .All  ranks  were  represented,  or  nearly  so, 
and  most  regiments  that  either  could  remember.  There  were 
Canadian,  Australian,  and  South  African  badges,  and  at  last 
Julie  declared  that  only  one  was  wanting. 

"What  will  you  give  for  this  ofhcer's  badge?"  she  de- 
manded, seizing  hold  of  one  of  Peter's  Maltese  crosses. 

The  girl  looked  at  it  curiously.    "What  is  it?"  she  said. 

"It's  the  badge  of  the  Sacred  Legion,"  said  Julie  gravely. 
"You  know  Malta?  Well,  that's  part  of  the  British  Empire, 
of  course,  and  the  English  used  to  have  a  regiment  there  to 
defend  it  from  the  Turks.  It  was  a  great  honour  to  join, 
and  so  it  was  called  the  Sacred  Legion.  This  officer  is  a 
Captain  in  it." 

"Shut  up,  Julie,"  said  Peter,  sotto  voce. 

But  nothing  would  stop  her.  "Come  now,"  she  said. 
"What  will  you  give?  You'll  give  her  one  for  a  kiss,  won't 
you,  Solomon?" 

The  girl  laughed  and  blushed.  "Not  before  mademoiselle," 
Bhe  said,  looking  at  Peter. 

"Oh,  I'm  off,"  cried  Julie.  "I'll  spare  you  one,  but  only 
one,  remember,"  and  she  deliberately  got  up  and  left  them. 

Mademoiselle  was  "tres  jolie,"  said  the  girl,  collecting 
her  badges.  Peter  detached  a  cross  and  gave  it  her,  and 
she  demurely  put  up  her  mouth.  He  kissed  her  lightly,  and 
walked  leisurely  out  to  settle  the  bill  and  call  the  car.  He 
had  entirely  forgotten  his  depression,  and  the  world  seemed 
good  to  him.  He  hummed  a  little  song  by  the  water's  edge 
as  he  waited,  and  thought  over  the  day.  He  could  never 
remember  having  had  such  a  one  in  his  life.  Then  he  recol- 
lected that  one  badge  was  gone,  and  he  abstracted  the  other. 
Without  his  badges  he  would  not  be  known  as  a  chaplain. 

When  Julie  appeared,  she  made  no  remark,  as  he  had 


^  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  137 

half-expected.  They  got  in,  and  started  off  back  in  the 
cooling  evening.  Near  Tancarville  they  stopped  the  car  to 
have  the  hood  put  up,  and  strolled  up  into  the  grounds  of 
the  old  castle  while  they  waited. 

"Extraordinary  it  must  have  been  to  have  lived  in  a 
place  like  this,"  said  Peter. 

"Rather,"-  said  Julie,  "and  beyond  words  awful  to  the 
women.  I  cannot  imagine  what  they  must  have  been  like, 
but  I  think  they  must  have  been  something  like  native 
African  women." 

"Why?"  queried    Peter. 

"Oh,  because  a  native  woman  never  reads  and  hardly  goes 
five  miles  from  her  village.  She  is  a  human  animal,  who 
bears  children  and  keeps  the  house  of  her  master,  that's  all. 
That's  what  these  women  must  have  done." 

"The  Church  produced  some  different  types,"  said  Peter ; 
"but  they  had  no  chance  elsewhere,  perhaps.  Still,  I  ex- 
pect they  were  as  happy  as  we,  perhaps  happier." 

"And  their  cows  were  happier  still,  I  should  think,*' 
laughed  Julie.  "No,  you  can't  persuade  me.  I  wouldn't 
have  been  a  woman  in  those  days  for  the  world." 

"And  now?"  asked  Peter. 

"Rather !  We  have  much  the  best  time  on  the  whole. 
We  can  do  what  we  like  pretty  well.  If  we  want  to  be  men, 
we  can.  We  can  put  on  riding-breeches,  even,  and  run  a 
farm.  But  if  we  like,  we  can  wear  glad  rags  and  nice 
undies,  and  be  more  women  than  ever." 

"And  in  the  end  thereof?"  Peter  couldn't  help  asking. 

"Oh,"  said  Julie  lightly,  "one  can  settle  down  and  have 
babies  if  one  wants  to.  And  sit  in  a  drawing-room  and 
talk  scandal  as  much  as  one  likes.  Not  that  I  shall  do  either, 
thank  you.  I  shall — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do. 
Solomon,  you  are  at  your  worst.  Pick  me  some  of  those 
primroses,  and  let's  be  going.  You  never  can  tell :  we  may 
have  to  walk  home  yet." 

Peter  plucked  a  few  of  the  early  blooms,  and  she  pushed 


138  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

them  into  her  waist-belt.  Then  they  went  back  to  the  car, 
and  got  in  again. 

"Cold?"  he  asked,  after  a  little. 

"A  bit,"  she  said.  "Tuck  me  up,  and  don't  sit  in  that  far 
corner  all  the  time.  You  make  me  feel  chilly  to  look  at 
you.  I  hate  sentimental  people,  but  if  you  tried  hard  and 
were  nice  I  could  work  up  (juite  a  lot  of  sentiment  just  now." 

He  laughed,  and  tucked  her  up  as  required.  Then  he  lit 
a  cigarette  and  slipped  his  arm  round  her  waist.  "Is  that 
better?"  he  said. 

"Much.  But  you  can't  have  had  much  practice.  Now 
tell  me  stories." 

Peter  had  a  mind  to  tell  her  several,  but  he  refrained,  and 
they  grew  silent.  "Do  you  think  we  shall  have  another  day 
like  this?"  he  demanded,  after  a  little. 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  she  said.  "But  one  never  knows, 
does  one?  The  chances  are  we  shan't.  It's  a  queer  old 
world." 

"Let's  try,  anyway;  I've  loved  it,"  he  said. 

"So  have  I,"  said  Julie.  "It's  the  best  day  I've  had  for 
a  long  time,  Peter.  You're  a  nice  person  to  go  out  with, 
you  know,  though  I  mustn't  flatter  you  too  much.  You 
should  develop  the  gift;  it's  not  everyone  that  has  it." 

"I've  no  wish  to,"  he  said. 

"You  are  an  old  bear,"  she  laughed ;  "but  you  don't  mean 
all  you  say,  or  rather  you  do,  for  you  will  say  what  you 
mean.  You  shouldn't,  Peter.  It's  not  done  nowadays,  and 
it  gives  one  away.  If  you  were  like  me,  now,  you  could 
say  and  do  anything  and  nobody  would  mind.  They'd  never 
know  what  you  meant,  and  of  course  all  the  time  you'd  mean 
nothing." 

"So  you  mean  nothing  all  the  time?"  he  queried. 

"Of  course,"  she  said  merrily.     "What  do  you  think?" 

That  jarred  Peter  a  little,  so  he  said  nothing  and  silence 
fell  on  them,  and  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville  in  the  city  he  aske4 
if  she  would  mind  finishing  alone. 


^    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  139 

"Not  a  bit,  old  thing,  if  you  want  to  go  anywhere,"  she 
said. 

He  apologised.  "Arnold — he's  our  padre — is  likely  to  be 
at  the  club,  and  I  promised  I'd  walk  home  with  him,"  he 
lied  remorselessly.  "It's  beastly  rude,  I  know,  but  I  thought 
you'd  understand." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  laughed.  "I  believe  I  do,"  she 
said. 

He  stopped  the  car  and  got  out,  settling  with  the  man, 
and  glancing  up  at  a  clock.  "You'll  be  in  at  nine-forty-five," 
he  said,  "as  proper  as  possible.  And  thank  you  so  much 
for  coming." 

"Thank  you,  Solomon,"  she  replied.  "It's  been  just  top- 
ping. Thanks  awfully  for  taking  me.  And  come  in  to  tea 
soon,  won't  you?"  He  promised  and  held  out  his  hand. 
She  pressed  it,  and  waved  out  of  the  window  as  the  car 
drove  off.  And  no  sooner  was  it  in  motion  than  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  fool.  Yet  he  knew  why  he  had  done  as  he 
had,  there,  in  the  middle  of  the  town.  He  knew  that  he 
feared  she  would  kiss  him  again — as  before. 

Not  noticing  where  he  went,  he  set  off  through  the  streets, 
making,  unconsciously  almost,  for  the  sea,  and  the  dark 
boulevards  that  led  from  the  gaily  lit  centre  of  the  city 
towards  it.  He  walked  slowly,  his  mind  a  chaos  of  thoughts, 
and  so  ran  into  a  curious  adventure. 

As  he  passed  a  side-street  he  heard  a  man's  uneven  steps 
on  the  pavement,  a  girl's  voice,  a  curse,  and  the  sound  of  a 
fall.  Then  followed  an  exclamation  in  another  woman's 
voice,  and  a  quick  sentence  in  French. 

Peter  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then  turned  down  the  road 
to  where  a  small  group  was  faintly  visible.  As  he  reached 
it,  he  saw  that  a  couple  of  street  girls  were  bending  over  a 
man  who  lay  sprawling  on  the  ground,  and  he  quickened  his 
steps  to  a  run.  His  boots  were  rubber-soled,  and  all  but 
noiseless.  "Here,  I  say,"  he  said  as  he  came  up.  "Let 
that  man  alone.    What  are  you  doing?"  he  added  in  halting 


140  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

French.  One  of  the  two  girls  gave  a  Httle  scream,  but  the 
other  straightened  herself,  and  Peter  perceived  that  he  knew 
her.    It  was  Louise,  of  Travalini's. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  demanded  again  in  English. 
"Is  he  hurt?" 

"Non,  non,  monsieur,"  said  Louise.  "He  is  but  'zig-zag.' 
We  found  him  a  little  way  down  the  street,  and  he  cannot 
walk  easily.  So  we  help  him.  If  the  gendarme — how  do  you 
call  him? — the  red-cap,  see  him,  maybe  he  will  get  into 
trouble.  But  now  you  come.  You  will  doubtless  help  him. 
Vraiment,  he  is  in  luck.     We  go  now,  monsieur." 

Peter  bent  over  the  fallen  man.  He  did  not  know  him, 
but  saw  he  was  a  subaltern,  though  a  middle-aged  man. 
The  fellow  was  very  drunk,  and  did  little  else  than  stutter 
curses  in  which  the  name  of  our  Lord  was  frequent. 

Peter  pulled  at  his  arm,  and  Louise  stooped  to  help  him. 
Once  up,  he  got  his  arm  round  him,  and  demanded  where 
he  lived. 

The  man  stared  at  them  foolishly.  Peter  gave  him  a 
bit  of  a  shake,  and  demanded  the  address  again.  "Come 
on,"  he  said.  "Pull  yourself  together,  for  the  Lord's  sake. 
We  shall  end  before  the  A. P.M.  if  you  don't.  What's  your 
camp,  you  fool?" 

At  that  the  man  told  him,  stammeringly,  and  Peter  sighed 
his  relief.  "I  know,"  he  said  to  Louise.  "It's  not  far.  I'll 
maybe  get  a  taxi  at  the  corner."  She  pushed  him  towards  a 
doorway.  "Wait  a  minute,"  she  said.  "I  live  here ;  it's  all 
right.     I  will  get  a  fiacre.     I  know  where  to  find  one." 

She  darted  away.  It  seemed  long  to  Peter,  but  in  a  few 
minutes  a  horn  tooted  and  a  cab  came  round  the  corner. 
Between  them,  they  got  the  subaltern  in,  and  Peter  gave 
the  address.  Then  he  pulled  out  his  purse  before  stepping 
in  himself,  opened  it,  found  a  ten- franc  note,  and  offered 
it  to  Louise. 

The  girl  of  the  street  and  the  tavern  pushed  it  away. 
"La !"  she  exclaimed.  "Vite !  Get  in.  Bon  Dieu !  Should 
I  be  paid  for  a  kindness?     Poor  boy!  he  does  not  know 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  141 

what  he  does.  He  will  *ave  a  head — ah!  terrible — in  the 
morning.  And  see,  he  has  fought  for  la  patrie."  She  pointed 
to  a  gold  wound-stripe  on  his  arm.    "Bon  soir,  monsieur." 

She  stepped  back  and  spoke  quickly  to  the  driver,  who 
was  watching  sardonically.  He  nodded.  "Bon  soir,  mon- 
sieur," she  said  again,  and  disappeared  in  the  doorway. 


'/ 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  FEW  weeks  later  the  War  Office — if  it  was  the  War 
Office,  but  one  gets  into  the  habit  of  attributing  these 
things  to  the  War  Office — had  one  of  its  regular  spasms. 
It  woke  up  suddenly  with  a  touch  of  nightmare,  and  it  got 
fearfully  busy  for  a  few  weeks  before  going  to  sleep  again. 
All  manner  of  innocent  people  were  dragged  into  the  vortex 
of  its  activities,  and  blameless  lives  were  disturbed  and  ter- 
rorised. This  particular  enthusiasm  involved  even  such 
placid  and  contented  souls  as  the  Chaplain-General,  the 
Principal  Chaplain,  their  entire  staffs,  and  a  great  many  of 
their  rank  and  file.  It  created  a  new  department,  acquired 
many  additional  offices  for  the  B.E.F.,  dragged  from  their 
comfortable  billets  a  certain  number  of  high-principled  base 
officers,  and  then  (by  the  mercy  of  Providence)  flickered  out 
almost  as  soon  as  the  said  officers  had  made  themselves  a 
little  more  comfortable  than  before  in  their  new  posts. 

It  was  so  widespread  a  disturbance  that  even  Peter 
Graham,  most  harmless  of  men,  with  plenty  of  his  own  fish 
to  fry,  was  dragged  into  it,  as  some  leaf,  floating  placidly 
downstream,  may  be  caught  and  whirled  away  in  an  excited 
eddy.  More  definitely,  it  removed  him  from  Havre  and 
Julie  just  when  he  was  beginning  to  want  most  definitely 
to  stay  there,  and  of  course,  when  it  happened,  he  could 
hardly  know  that  it  was  to  be  but  a  temporary  separation. 

He  was  summoned,  then,  one  fine  morning,  to  his  A.C.G.'s 
office  in  town,  and  he  departed  on  a  bicycle,  turning  over  in 
his  mind  such  indiscretions  of  which  he  had  been  guilty 
and  wondering  which  of  them  was  about  lo  trip  him.  Pen- 
nell  had  been  confident,  indeed,  and  particular. 

"You're  for  it,  old  bean,"  he  had  said.    "There's  a  limit 

142 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  143 

«. 

to  the  patience  even  of  the  Church.  They  are  going  to  say 
that  there  is  no  need  for  you  to  visit  hospitals  after  dark, 
and  tliat  their  padres  mustn't  be  seen  out  with  nurses  who 
smoke  in  public.    And  all  power  to  their  elbow,  I  say." 

Peter's  reply  was  certainly  not  in  the  Prayer-Book,  and 
would  probably  have  scandalised  its  compilers,  but  he 
thought,  secretly,  that  there  might  be  something  in  what  his 
friend  sakl.  Consequently  he  rode  his  bicycle  carelessly,  and 
was  indifferent  to  tram-lines  and  some  six  inches  of  nice 
sticky  mud  on  parts  of  the  pare.  In  the  ordinary  course, 
therefore,  these  things  revenged  themselves  upon  him.  He 
came  off  neatly  and  conveniently  opposite  a  small  cafe  debit 
at  a  turn  in  the  dock  road,  and  the  mud  prevented  the  pave 
from  seriously  hurting  him. 

A  Frenchman,  minding  the  cross-lines,  picked  him  up, 
and  he,  madame,  her  assistant,  and  a  customer,  carried  him 
into  the  kitchen  off  the  bar  and  washed  and  dried  him.  The 
least  he  could  do  was  a  glass  of  French  beer  all  round,  with 
a  franc  to  the  dock  labourer  who  straightened  his  handle- 
bars and  tucked  in  a  loose  sjx^ke,  and  for  all  this  the  War 
Office — if  it  was  the  War  Office,  for  it  may,  quite  possibly, 
have  been  Lord  Northcliffe  or  Mr.  Boltomley,  or  some  other 
controller  of  our  national  life — was  directly  responsible. 
When  one  thinks  that  in  a  hundred  places  just  such  dis- 
turbances were  in  progress  in  ten  times  as  many  innocent 
lives,  one  is  appalled  at  their  eft'rontery.  They  ought  to  eat 
and  drink  more  carefully,  or  take  liver  pills., 

However,  in  due  time  Peter  sailed  up  to  the  office  of  his 
immediate  chief  but  little  the  worse  for  wear,  and  was 
ushered  in.  He  was  prepared  for  a  solitary  interview,  but 
he  found  a  council  of  some  two  dozen  persons,  who  included 
an  itinerant  Bishop,  an  Oxford  Professor,  a  few  Y.M.C.A. 
ladies,  and — triumph  of  the  A.C.G. — a  Labour  member. 
Peter  could  not  conceive  that  so  great  a  weight  of  intellect 
could  be  involved  in  his  affairs,  and  took  comfort.  He  seated 
himself  on  a  wooden  chair,  and  put  on  his  most  intelligent 
appearance,  and  if  it  was  slightly  marred  by  a  mud  streak 


144  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

at  the  back  of  his  ear,  overlooked  by  madame's  kindly  as- 
sistant who  had  attended  to  that  side  of  him,  he  was  not 
really  to  blame.  Again,  it  was  the  fault  of  Lord  Northcliffe 
or — or  any  of  the  rest  of  them. 

It  transpired  that  he  was  slightly  late :  the  Bishop  had 
been  speaking.  He  was  a  good  Bishop  and  eloquent,  and, 
as  the  A.C.G.  who  now  rose  to  take  the  matter  in  hand 
remarked,  he  had  struck  the  right  note.  In  all  probability  it 
was  due  to  Peter's  having  missed  that  note  that  he  was  so 
critical  of  the  scheme.  The  note  would  have  toned  him  up. 
He  would  have  felt  a  more  generous  sympathy  for  the  lads 
in  the  field,  and  would  have  been  more  definitely  convinced 
that  something  must  be  done.  If  not  plainly  stated  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  his  lordship  had  at  least  found  it  indicated 
there,  but  Peter  was  not  aware  of  this.  He  only  observed 
that  the  note  had  made  everyone  solemn  and  intense  except 
tlie  Liibour  member.  That  gentleman,  indeed,  interrupted 
the  A.C.G.  before  he  was  fairly  on  his  legs  with  the  remark; 
"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  but  as  this  is  an  informal  con- 
ference, does  anyone  mind  if  I  smoke?"  .  .  . 

Peter's  A.C.G.  was  any-thing  but  a  fool,  and  the  night- 
mare from  Headquarters  had  genuinely  communicated  itself 
to  him.  He  felt  all  he  said,  and  he  said  it  ably.  He  lacked 
only  in  one  regard :  he  had  never  been  down  among  the 
multitude.  He  knew  exactly  what  would  have  to  have  been 
in  his  own  mind  for  him  to  act  as  he  believed  some  of  them 
were  acting,  and  he  knew  exactly  how  he  would,  in  so  deplor- 
able a  condition  of  affairs,  have  set  about  remedying  it. 
These  things,  then,  he  stated  boldly  and  clearly.  As  he  pro- 
ceeded, the  Y.M.C.A.  ladies  got  out  notebooks,  the  Professor 
allowed  himself  occasional  applause,  and  the  Labour  mem- 
ber lit  another  pipe. 

It  appeared  that  tliere  was  extreme  unrest  and  agitation 
among  the  troops,  or  at  least  a  section  of  the  troops,  for 
no  one  could  say  that  the  armies  in  the  field  were  not  mag- 
nificent. They  had  got  to  remember  that  the  Tommy  of 
to-day  was  not  as  the  Tommy  of  yesterday — not  that  he 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  145 

suffered  by  comparison,  but  that  he  was  far  better  edu- 
cated and  far  more  inclined  to  think  for  himself.  They 
were  well  aware  that  a  little  knowledge  was  a  dangerous 
thing,  or,  again,  as  his  friend  the  Bishop  would  have  doubt- 
less put  it,  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire  kindleth.  There 
was  no  escaping  it :  foreign  propaganda,  certain  undesirable 
books  and  papers — books  and  papers,  he  need  hardly  say,  out- 
side the  control  of  the  reputable  Press — and  even  Socialistic 
agitators,  were  abroad  in  the  Army.  He  did  not  wish  to  say 
too  much ;  it  was  enough  to  remind  them  of  what,  possibly, 
they  already  knew,  that  certain  depots  on  certain  occasions 
had  refused  to  sing  the  National  Anthem,  and  were  not  con- 
tent with  their  wages.  Insignificant  as  these  things  might 
be  in  detail,  G.H.Q.  had  felt  there  was  justifiable  cause  for 
alarm.  This  meeting  had  gathered  to  consider  plans  for  a 
remedy. 

Now  he  thanked  God  that  they  were  not  Prussians.  There 
must  be  no  attempt  at  coercion.  A  war  for  liberty  must  be 
won  by  free  people.  One  had,  of  course,  to  have  discipline 
in  the  Army,  but  theirs  was  to-day  a  citizen  Army.  His 
,  .  friend  who  had  left  his  parliamentary  duties  to  visit  France 
■  /  might  rest  assured  that  the  organizations  represented  there 
that  morning  would  not  forget  that.  In  a  word,  Tommy  had 
a  vote,  and  he  was  entitled  to  it,  and  should  keep  it.  One  day 
he  should  even  use  it;  and  although  no  one  could  wish  to 
change  horses  crossing  a  stream,  still,  they  hoped  that  day 
would  speedily  come — the  day  of  peace  and  victory. 

But  meantime,  what  was  to  be  done?  As  the  Bishop  had 
rightly  said,  something  must  be  done.  Resolute  on  this 
point,  H.Q.  had  called  in  the  C.G.  and  the  P.C.  and,  he 
believed,  expert  opinion  on  both  sides  the  House  of  Com- 
mons ;  and  the  general  opinion  agreed  upon  was  that  Tommy 
should  be  educated  to  vote  correctly  when  the  time  came,  and 
to  wait  peacefully  for  that  time.  The  Professor  could  tell 
them  of  schemes  even  now  in  process  of  formation  at  home 
in  order  that  the  land  they  loved  might  be  cleaner,  sweeter, 
better  and  happier,  in  the  days  to  come.    But  Tommy,  mean- 


146  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

time,  did  not  know  of  these  things.  He  was  apparentJj 
under  the  delusion  that  he  must  work  out  his  own  salvation, 
whereas,  in  point  of  fact,  it  was  being  worked  out  for  him 
scientifically  and  religiously.  If  these  things  were  clearly 
laid  before  him,  H.Q,  was  convinced  that  agitation,  dissat- 
isfaction, and  even  revolution — for  there  were  those  who 
thought  they  were  actually  trending  in  that  direction — would 
be  nipped  in  the  bud. 

The  scheme  was  simple  and  far-reaching.  Lectures  would 
be  given  all  over  the  areas  occupied  by  British  troops.  Every 
base  would  be  organised  in  such  a  way  that  such  lectures 
and  even  detailed  courses  of  study  should  be  available  for 
everyone.  Every  chaplain,  hutworker,  and  social  entertainer 
must  do  his  or  her  bit.  They  must  know  how  to  speak  wisely 
and  well — not  all  in  public,  but  everyone  as  the  occasion 
offered,  privately,  in  hut  or  camp,  to  inquiring  and  dissat* 
isfied  Tommies.  They  would  doubdess  feel  themselves  in-» 
sufficient  for  these  things,  but  study-circles  were  to  be 
formed  and  literature  obtained  which  would  completely  fur- 
nish them  with  information.  He  would  conclude  by  merely 
laying  on  the  table  a  bundle  of  the  splendid  papers  and 
tracts  already  prepared  for  this  work.  The  Professor  would 
now  outline  what  was  being  attempted  at  home,  and  then 
the  meeting  would  be  open  for  discussion. 

The  Professor  was  given  half  an  hour,  and  he  made  an 
excellent  speech  for  a  cornered  and  academic  theorist.  The 
first  ten  minutes  he  devoted  to  explaining  that  he  could  not 
explain  in  the  time ;  in  the  second,  tempering  the  wind  ta 
the  shorn  lamb,  he  pointed  out  that  it  was  no  use  his  out- 
lining schemes  not  yet  completed,  or  that  they  could  read 
for  themselves,  or  that,  possibly,  without  some  groundwork, 
they  could  not  understand ;  and  in  the  third  ten  minutes  he 
outlined  tlie  committees  dealing  with  the  work  and  con- 
taining such  well-known  names  as  Robert  Smiley,  Mr.  But- 
ton, and  Clydens,  He  sat  down.  Everyone  applauded — the 
M.P.,  and  possibly  the  A.C.G.,  because  they  honestly  knew 
and  respected  these  gentlemen,  and  the  rest  because  they 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  147 

felt  they  ought  to  do  so.  The  meeting  was  then  opened 
for  discussion. 

Peter  took  no  part  in  what  followed,  and,  indeed,  nothing 
over-illuminating  was  said  save  one  remark,  cast  upon  the 
waters  by  the  Labour  member,  which  was  destined  to  be 
found  after  many  days.  They  were  talking  of  the  lectures, 
and  one  of  the  ladies  (Peter  understood  a  Girton  lecturer) 
was  apparently  eager  to  begin  without  delay.  The  M.P. 
begged  to  ask  a  question :  Were  there  to  be  questions  and 
a  discussion  ? 

The  A.C.G.  glanced  at  a  paper  before  him,  and  rose.  He 
apologised  for  omitting  to  mention  it  before,  but  H.Q. 
thought  it  would  be  subversive  of  all  discijiline  if,  let  us  say, 
privates  should  be  allowed  to  get  up  and  argue  with  the 
officers  who  might  have  addressed  them.  They  all  knew 
what  might  be  said  in  the  heat  of  argument.  Also,  if  he 
might  venture  to  say  so,  some  of  their  lecturers,  though 
primed  with  the  right  lecture,  might  not  be  such  experts 
that  they  could  answer  every  question,  and  plainly  failure 
to  satisfy  a  questioner  might  be  disastrous.  But  questions 
could  be  written  and  replies  given  at  the  next  lecture.  He 
thought,  smiling,  that  some  of  them  would  perhaps  find 
that  convenient. 

The  M.P.  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "Well,  sir,"  he  said, 
"Pm  sorry  to  be  a  wet-blanket,  but  if  that  is  so,  the  scheme 
is  wrecked  from  the  start.  You  don't  know  the  men ;  I  do. 
They're  not  going  to  line  up,  like  the  pupils  of  Dotheboys 
Academy,  for  a  spoonful  of  brimstone  and  treacle." 

The  meeting  was  slightly  scandalised.  The  chairman,  how- 
ever, rose  to  the  occasion.  That,  he  said,  was  a  matter  for 
H.Q.  They  were  there  to  do  their  duty.  And,  being  an 
able  person,  he  did  his.  In  ten  minutes  they  were  formed 
into  study-bands  and  were  pledged  to  study,  with  which 
conclusion  the  meeting  adjourned. 

Peter  was  almost  out  of  the  door  when  he  heard  his  name 
called,  and  turning,  saw  the  A.C.G.  beckoning  him.  He 
went  up  to  the  table  and  shook  hands. 


148  SIMON  CALLED  PETEK 

"Do  you  know  the  Professor?"  asked  his  superior. 
"Professor,  this  is  Mr.  Graham." 

"How  do  you  do?"  said  the  man  of  science.  "You  are 
Graham  of  Balliol,  aren't  you?  You  read  Political  Science 
and  Economics  a  httle  at  Oxford,  I  think?  You  ought  to 
be  the  very  man  for  us,  especially  as  you  know  how  to 
speak." 

Peter  was  confused,  but,  being  human,  a  little  flattered. 
He  confessed  to  the  sins  enumerated,  and  waited  for  more. 

"Well,"  said  the  A.C.G.,  "Pve  sent  in  your  name  already, 
Graham,  and  they  want  you  to  go  to  Abbeville  for  a  few 
weeks.  A  gathering  is  to  be  made  there  of  the  more  prom- 
ising material,  and  you  are  to  get  down  to  the  work  of 
making  a  syllabus,  and  so  on.  You  will  meet  other  officers 
from  all  branches  of  the  Service,  and  it  should  be  interesting 
and  useful  I  presume  you  will  be  willing  to  go?  Of 
course  it  is  entirely  optional,  but  I  may  say  that  the  men 
who  volunteer  will  not  be  forgotten." 

"Quite  so,"  said  the  Professor.  "They  will  render  ex- 
tremely valuable  service.  I  shall  hope  to  be  there  part  of 
the  time  myself." 

Peter  thought  quickly  of  a  number  of  things,  as  one  does 
at  such  a  moment.  Some  of  them  were  serious  things,  and 
some  quite  frivolous — like  Julie.  But  he  could  hardly  do 
otherwise  than  consent.  He  asked  when  he  should  have 
to  go. 

"In  a  few  days.  You'll  have  plenty  of  time  to  get  ready. 
I  should  advise  you  to  write  for  some  books,  and  begin  to 
read  up  a  little,  for  I  expect  you  are  a  bit  rusty,  like  the 
rest  of  us.  And  I  shall  hope  to  have  you  back  lecturing  in 
this  Army  area  before  long." 

So  to  speak,  bowed  out,  Peter  made  his  way  home.  In 
the  Rue  de  Paris  Julie  passed  him,  sitting  with  a  couple  of 
other  nurses  in  an  ambulance  motor-lorry,  and  she  waved  her 
hand  to  him.  The  incident  served  to  depress  him  still  more, 
and  he  was  a  bit  petulant  as  he  entered  the  mess.  He  flung 
his  cap  on  the  table,  and  threw  himself  into  a  chair. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  149 

"Well,"  said  Pennell,  who  was  there,  "on  the  peg  all 
fight?" 

"Don't  be  a  fool !"  said  Peter  sarcastically.  "I'm  wanted 
on  the  Staff.  Haig  can't  manage  without  me.  I've  got  to 
leave  this  perishing  suburb  and  skip  up  to  H.Q.,  and  don't 
you  forget  it,  old  dear.  I  shall  probably  be  a  Major-Gen- 
eral  before  you  get  your  third  pip.    Got  that?" 

Pennell  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth.  "What's  in  the 
wind  now?"  he  demanded. 

"Well,  you  might  not  have  noticed  it,  but  I'm  a  political 
and  economic  expert,  and  Haig's  fed  up  that  you  boys  don't 
tumble  to  the  wisdom  of  the  centuries  as  you  ought.  Con- 
sequently I've  got  to  instruct  you.  I'm  going  to  waltz  around 
in  a  motor-car,  probably  with  tabs  up,  and  lecture.  And 
there  aren't  to  be  any  questions  asked,  for  that's  subversive 
of  discipline." 

"Good  Lord,  man,  do  talk  sense!  What  in  the  world 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  mean  jolly  well  what  I  say,  if  you  want  to  know,  or 
something  precious  like  it.  The  blinking  Army's  got  dry- 
rot  and  revolutionary  fever,  and  we  may  all  be  murdered 
in  our  little  beds  unless  I  put  a  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  That's 
a  bit  mixed,  but  it'll  stand.  I  shall  be  churning  out  this 
thing  by  the  yard  in  a  litde." 

"Any  extra  pay?"  demanded  Pennell  anxiously.  "I  can 
lecture  on  engineering,  and  would  do  for  an  extra  sixpence. 
Whisky's  going  up,  and  I  haven't  paid  my  last  mess  bill." 

"You  haven't,  old  son,"  said  Arnold,  coming  in,  "and 
you've  jolly  well  got  to.     Here's  a  letter  for  you,  Graham." 

Peter  glanced  at  the  envelope  and  tore  it  open.  Pennell 
knocked  his  pipe  out  with  feigned  dejection.  "The  fellow 
makes  me  sick,  padre,"  he  said.  "He  gets  billets-doux 
every  hour  of  the  blessed  day." 

Peter  jumped  up  excitedly.  "This  is  better,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  letter  from  Langton  at  Rouen,  a  chap  I  met  there 
who  writes  occasionally.  He's  been  hauled  in  for  this 
stunt  himself,  and  is  to  go  to  Abbeville  as  well.     By  Jove, 


150  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

I'll  go  up  with  him  if  I  can.  Give  me  some  paper,  somebody. 
I'll  have  to  write  to  him  at  once,  or  we'll  boss  it." 

"And  make  a  will,  and  write  to  a  dozen  girls,  I  should 
think,"  said  Pennell.  "I  don't  know  what  the  blooming 
Army's  coming  to.  Might  as  well  chuck  it  and  have  peace, 
I  think.  But  meantime  I've  got  to  leave  you  blighted  slackers 
to  gad  about  the  place,  and  go  and  do  an  honest  day's  work. 
/  don't  get  Staff  jobs  and  red  tabs.  No;  I  help  win  the 
ruddy  war,  that's  all.  See  you  before  you  go,  Graham,  I 
suppose?  They'll  likely  run  the  show  for  a  day  or  two 
more  without  you.  There'll  be  time  for  you  to  stand  a 
dinner  on  the  strength  of  it  yet." 

A  week  later  Peter  met  Langton  by  appointment  in  the 
Rouen  club,  the  two  of  them  being  booked  to  travel  that 
evening  via  Amiens  to  Abbeville.  His  tall  friend  was 
drinking  a  whisky-and-soda  in  the  smoke-room  and  talking 
with  a  somewhat  bored  expression  to  no  less  a  j)erson  than 
Jenks  of  the  A.S.C. 

Peter  greeted  tliem.  "Hullo!"  he  said  to  the  latter. 
"Fancy  meeting  you  here  again.  Don't  say  you're  going  to 
lecture  as  well  ?" 

"The  good  God  preserve  us !"  exclaimed  Jenks  blas- 
phemously. "But  I  am  off  in  your  train  to  Boulogne.  Been 
transferred  to  our  show  there,  and  between  ourselves,  I'm 
not  sorry  to  go.  It's  a  decent  hole  in  some  ways,  Boulogne, 
and  it's  time  I  got  out  of  Rouen.  You're  a  lucky  man,  padre, 
not  to  be  led  into  temptation  by  every  damned  girl  you  meet. 
I  don't  know  what  they  see  in  mc,"  he  continued  mournfully, 
"and,  at  this  hour  of  the  afternoon,  I  don't  know  what  I 
see  in  them." 

"Nor  do  I,"  said  Langton.  "Have  a  drink,  Graham? 
There'll  be  no  getting  anything  on  the  ruddy  train.  We 
leave  at  six-thirty,  and  get  in  somewhere  about  four  a.m. 
next  morning,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out." 

"You  don't  sound  over-cheerful,"  said  Graham. 

"I'm  not.  I'm  fed  up  over  this  damned  lecture  stunt! 
The  thing's  condemned  to   failure  from  the  start,  and  at 


SIAIOxN  CALLED  PETER  151 

liny  rate  it's  no  time  for  it.  Fritz  means  more  by  this  push 
than  the  idiots  about  here  allow.  He  may  not  get  through ; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  may.  If  he  does,  it's  UP  with 
us  all.  And  here  we  are  to  go  lecturing  on  economics  and 
industrial  problems  while  the  damned  house  is  on  fire !" 

Peter  took  his  drink  and  sat  down.  "What's  your  par- 
ticular subject?"  he  asked. 

"The  Empire.  Colonies.  South  Africa.  Canada.  And 
why  ?  Because  I  took  a  degree  in  History  in  Cambridge,  and 
have  done  surveying  on  the  C.P.R.  Lor' !  Finish  that  drink 
and  have  another." 

They  went  together  to  the  station,  and  got  a  first  to  them- 
selves, in  which  they  were  fortunate.  They  spread  their  kit 
about  the  place,  suborned  an  official  to  warn  everyone  else 
off,  and  then  Peter  and  Langton  strolled  up  and  down  the 
platform  for  half  an  hour,  as  the  train  was  not  now  to  start 
till  seven.  Somebody  told  them  there  was  a  row  on  up  the 
line,  though  it  was  not  plain  how  that  would  affect  them. 
Jenks  departed  on  business  of  his  own.  A  girl  lived  some- 
where in  the  neighbourhood. 

"How're  you  getting  on  now,  padre  ?"  asked  Langton. 

"Pm  not  getting  on,"  said  Peter.  "Pm  doing  my  job  as 
best  I  can,  and  Pm  seeing  all  there  is  to  see,  but  Pm  more 
in  a  fog  than  ever.  Pve  got  a  hospital  at  Plavre,  and  I 
distribute  cigarettes  and  the  news  of  the  day.  That's  about 
all.  I  get  on  all  right  with  the  men  socially,  and  now  and 
again  I  meet  a  keen  Nonconformist  who  wants  me  to  pray 
with  him,  or  an  Anglican  who  wants  Holy  Communion,  but 
not  many.  When  I  preach  I  rebuke  vice,  as  the  Apostle  says, 
but  Pm  hanged  if  I    really  know  why." 

Langton  laughed.  "That's  a  little  humorous,  padre,"  he 
said.    "Wliat  about  the  Ten  Commandments?" 

Peter  thought  of  Julie.  He  kicked  a  stone  viciouslyt 
''Commandments  are  no  use,"  he  said — "not  out  here." 

"Nor  anywhere,"  said  Langton,  "nor  ever,  I  think,  too. 
Why  do  you  suppose  I  keep  moderately  moral?  Chiefly 
because  I  fear  natural  consequences  and  have  a  wife  and 


152  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

kiddies  that  I  love.  Why  does  Jenks  do  the  opposite? 
Because  he's  more  of  a  fool  or  less  of  a  coward,  and  chiefly 
loves  himself.  That's  all,  and  that's  all  there  is  in  it  for 
most  of  us." 

"You   don't    fear    God   at   all,   then?"   demanded    Peter. 

"Oh  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  him !"  quoted  Lang- 
ton.    "I  don't  believe  He  thundered  on  Sinai,  at  any  rate." 

"Nor  spoke  in  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount?" 

"Ah,  I'm  not  so  sure ;  but  it  seems  to  ine  that  He  said  too 
much  or  He  said  too  little  there,  Graham.  One  can't  help 
'looking  on'  a  woman  occasionally.  And  in  any  case  it 
doesn't  seem  to  me  that  the  Sermon  is  anything  like  the 
Commandments.  Brotherly  love  is  behind  the  first,  fear  of 
a  tribal  God  behind  the  second.  So  far  as  I  can  see,  Christ's 
creed  was  to  love  and  to  go  on  loving,  and  never  to  despair 
of  love.  Ix)ve,  according  to  Him,  was  stronger  than  hate, 
or  commandments,  or  preaching,  or  the  devil  himself.  If 
He  saved  souls  at  all,  He  saved  them  by  loving  them  what- 
ever they  were,  and  I  reckon  He  meant  us  to  do  the  same 
What  do  you  make  of  the  woman  taken  in  adultery,  and  the 
woman  who  wiped  His  feet  with  her  hair?  Or  of  Peter? 
or  of  Judas?  He  saved  Peter  by  loving  him  when  he  tiiought 
he  ought  to  have  the  Ten  Commandments  and  hell  fire 
thrown  at  his  head,  and  I  reckon  He'd  have  saved  Judas  by 
giving  him  that  sop-token  of  love  if  he  hadn't  had  a  soul  that 
could  lov;  nothing  but  himself." 

"What  is  love,  Langton?"  asked  Peter,  after  a  pause. 

The  other  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  laughed.  "Ask  the 
Bishops,"  he  said.  "Don't  ask  me.  I  don't  know.  Living 
with  the  woman  to  whom  you're  married  because  you  fear 
to  leave  her,  or  because  you  get  on  all  right,  is  not  love  at 
any  rate.  I  can't  see  that  marriage  has  got  much  to  do  with 
it.  It's  a  decent  convention  of  society  at  this  stage  of  de- 
velopment perhaps,  and  it  may  sign  and  seal  love  for  some 
people.  But  I  reckon  love's  love — a  big  positive  thing  that's 
bigger  than  sin,  and  bigger  than  the  devil.  I  reckon  that  if 
God    sees   that    anywhere.    He's    satisfied.      I    don't    think 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  I53 

Cranmer's  marriage  service  affects  Him  much,  nor  the  laws 
of  the  State.  If  a  man  cares  to  do  without  either,  he  runs  a 
risk,  of  course.  Society's  hard  on  a  woman,  and  man's  meant 
to  be  a  gregarious  creature.     But  that's  all  there  is  in  it." 

"But  how  can  you  tell  lust  from  love?"  demanded  Peter. 

"You  can't,  I  think,"  said  Langton.  "Most  men  can't, 
anyway.  Women  may  do,  but  I  don't  know.  I  reckon  that 
what  they  lust  after  mostly  is  babies  and  a  home.  I  don't 
think  they  know  it  any  more  than  men  know  that  what 
they're  after  is  the  gratification  of  a  passion;  but  there  it  is. 
(  We're  sewer  rats  crawling  up  a  damned  long  drain,  if  you 
]   ask  me,  padre !    I  don't  know  who  said  it,  but  it's  true." 

They  turned  in  their  walk,  and  Peter  looked  out  over  the 
old  town.  In  the  glow  of  sunset  the  thin  iron  modern  spire 
of  the  cathedral  had  a  grace  not  its  own,  and  the  roofs  below 
it  showed  strong  and  almost  sentient.  One  could  imagine 
that  the  distant  cathedral  brooding  over  the  city  heard,  saw, 
and  spoke,  if  in  another  language  than  the  language  of  men. 

"If  that  were  all,  Langlon,"  said  Peter  suddenly,  "I'd 
shoot  myself." 

"You're  a  queer  fellow,  Graham,"  said  Langton.  "( 
almost  think  you  might.  I'd  like  to  know  what  becomes 
of  you,  anyway.  Forgive  me — I  don't  mean  to  be  rude — but 
you  may  make  a  parson  }et.  But  don't  found  a  new  religion 
for  Heaven's  sake,  and  don't  muddle  up  man-made  laws  and 
God-made  instincts — if  they  are  God-made,"  he  added. 

Peter  said  nothing,  until  they  were  waiting  at  the  carriage- 
door  for  Jenks.  Then  he  said:  "Then  you  think  out  here 
men  have  simply  abandoned  conventions,  and  because  there  is 
no  authority  or  fear  or  faith  left  to  them,  they  do  as  they 
please  ?" 

Langton  settled  himself  in  a  corner.  "Yes,"  he  said, 
"that's  right  in  a  way.  But  that's  negatively.  I'd  go  farther 
than  that.  Of  course,  there  are  a  lot  of  Judas  Iscariots 
about  for  whom  I  shouldn't  imagine  the  devil  himself  has 
much  time,  though  I  suppose  we  ought  not  to  judge  'em,  buf 
there  are  also  a  lot  of  fine  fellows — and  fine  women.    They 


154  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

are  men  and  women,  if  I  understand  it,  who  have  sloughed 
off  the  conventions,  that  are  conventions  simply  for  conven- 
tion's sake,  and  who  are  reaching  out  towards  the  realities. 
Most  of  them  haven't  an  idea  what  those  are,  but  dumbly 
they  know.  Tommy  knows,  for  instance,  who  is  a  good 
chum  and  who  isn't;  that  is,  he  knows  that  sincerity  and 
unselfishness  and  pluck  are  realities.  He  doesn't  care  a  damn 
if  a  chap  drinks  and  swears  and  commits  what  the  Statute- 
Book  and  the  Prayer-Book  call  fornication.  And  he  cer- 
tainly doesn't  think  there  is  an  ascendinng  scale  of  sins,  or  at 
any  rate  that  you  parsons  have  got  the  scale  right." 

"I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  we  haven't,"  said  Peter.  "The 
Bible  lumps  liars  and  drunkards  and  murderers  and  adulter- 
ers and  dogs — whatever  that  may  mean — into  hell  altogether." 

"That's  so,"  said  Langton,  sticking  a  candle  on  the 
window-sill ;  "but  I  reckon  that's  not  so  much  because  they 
lie  or  drink  or  murder  or  lust  or — or  grin  about  the  city  like 
our  friend  Jenks,  who'll  likely  miss  the  boat  for  that  very 
reason,  but  because  of  something  else  they  all  have  in 
common." 

"What's  that?"  demanded  Peter. 

"I  haven't  the  faintest  idea,"  said  Langton. 

At  this  moment  the  French  guard,  an  R.T.O.,  and  Jenks 
appeared  in  sight  simultaneously,  the  two  former  urging  the 
latter  along.     He  caught  sight  of  them,  and  waved. 

"Help  him  in,"  said  the  R.T.O.,  a  jovial-looking  subaltern, 
genially — "and  keep  him  there,"  he  added  under  his  voice. 
"He's  had  all  he  can  carry,  and  if  he  gets  loose  again  he'll 
be  for  the  high  jump.  The  wonder  is  he  ever  got  back  in 
time." 

Peter  helped  him  up.  The  subaltern  glanced  at  his  badges 
and  smiled.  "He's  in  good  company  anyway,  padre,"  he 
said.  "If  you're  leaving  the  ninety-and-nine  in  the  wilder- 
ness, here's  one  to  bring  home  rejoicing."  He  slammed  the 
door.  "Right-o!"  he  said  to  the  guard;  "they're  all  aboard 
now."    The  man  comprehended  the  action,  and  waved  a  flag. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  155 

The  train  started  after  the  manner  of  French  trains  told  off 
for  the  use  of  British  soldiers,  iand  Jenks  collapsed  on  the 
seat. 

"Damned  near  thing  that!"  he  said  unsteadily;  "might 
have  missed  the  bloody  boat !  I  saw  my  little  bit,  though. 
She's  a  jolly  good  sort,  she  is.  Blasted  strong  stuff  that 
French  brandy,  though !  Whiskies  at  the  club  first,  yer 
know.  Give  us  a  hand,  padre;  I  reckon  I'll  just  lie  down 
a  bit.  .  .  .    Jolly  good  sort  of  padre,  eh,  skipper?  What?" 

Peter  helped  him  into  his  place,  and  then  came  and  sat 
at  his  feet,  opposite  Langton,  who  smiled  askance  at  him. 
"I'll  read  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Jenks  won't  trouble  us  further; 
he'll  sleep  it  off.    I  know  his  sort.    Got  a  book,  padre?" 

Peter  said  he  had,  but  that  he  wouldn't  read  for  a  little, 
and  he  sat  still  looking  at  the  country  as  they  jolted  past  in 
the  dusk.  After  a  while  Langton  lit  his  candle,  and  con- 
trived a  wind-screen,  for  the  centre  window  was  broken,  of 
a  newspaper.  Peter  watched  him  drowsily.  He  had  been  up 
early  and  travelled  already  that  day.  The  motion  helped, 
too,  and  in  half  an  hour  or  so  he  was  asleep. 

He  dreamt  that  he  was  preaching  Langton's  views  on  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount  in  the  pulpit  of  St.  John's,  and  that 
the  Canon,  from  his  place  beside  the  credence-table  within 
the  altar-rails,  was  shouting  at  him  to  stop.  In  his  dream 
he  persisted,  however,  until  that  irate  dignitary  seized  the 
famous  and  massive  offertory-dish  by  his  side  and  hurled  it 
in  the  direction  of  the  pulpit.  The  clatter  that  it  made  on  the 
stone  floor  awoke  him. 

He  was  first  aware  that  the  train  was  no  longer  in  motion, 
and  next  that  Langton's  tall  form  was  leaning  half  out  of 
the  window.  Then  confused  noises  penetrated  his  conscious- 
ness, and  he  perceived  that  light  flickered  in  the  otherwise 
darkened  compartment.  "Where  are  we?"  he  demanded, 
now  fully  awake.     "What's  up?" 

Langton  answered  over  his  shoulder.  ^'Somewhere  outside 
of  a  biggish  town,"  he  said ;  "and  there's  the  devil  of  a  strafe 


156  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

on.  The  whole  sky-line's  lit  up,  but  that  may  be  twenty 
miles  off.    However,  Fritz  must  have  advanceil  some." 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  series  of  much  louder  explosions 
and  the  rattle  of  machine-gun  fire.  "That's  near,"  he  said. 
"Over  the  town,  I  should  say — an  air-raid,  though  it  may  be 
long-distance  firing.     Come  and  see  for  yourself." 

He  pulled  himself  back  into  the  carriage,  and  Peter  leaned 
out  of  the  window  in  his  turn.  It  was  as  the  oiher  had  said. 
Flares  and  sudden  flashes,  that  came  and  went  more  like 
summer-lightning  than  anything  else,  lit  up  the  whole 
sky-line,  but  nearer  at  hand  a  steady  glow  from  one 
or  two  places  showed  in  the  sky.  One  couUl  distinguish 
flights  of  illuminated  tracer  bullets,  and  now  and  again  what 
he  took  to  be  Very  lights  exposed  the  countryside.  Peter 
saw  that  they  were  in  a  siding,  the  banks  of  which  reached 
just  above  the  top  of  the  compartments.  It  was  only  by 
craning  that  he  could  see  fields  and  what  looked  like  a  house 
beyond.  Men  were  leaning  out  of  all  the  windows,  mostly 
in  silence.  In  the  compartment  next  them  a  man  cursed  the 
Huns  for  six)iling  his  beauty  sleep.  It  was  slightly  overdone, 
Peter  thought. 

"Good  God!"  said  his  companion  behind  him.     "Listen!" 

It  was  difilcult,  but  between  the  louder  explosions  Peter 
concentrated  his  senses  on  listening.  In  a  minute  he  heard 
something  new,  a  faint  buzz  in  the  air. 

"Aeroplanes,"  said  Langton  coolly.  "I  hope  they  don't 
«pot  us.  Let  me  see.  Maybe  it's  our  planes."  He  craned 
out  in  Peter's  place.  "I  can't  see  anything,"  he  said,  "and 
you  can  hear  they're  flying  high." 

Down  the  train  everyone  was  staring  upwards  now. 
"Christ!"  exclaimed  Langton  suddenly,  "some  fool's  lighting 
a  pipe !     Put  that  match  out  there,"  he  called. 

Other  voices  took  him  up.  "That's  better,"  he  said  in  a 
minute.  "Forgive  my  swearing,  padre,  but  a  match  might 
give  us  away." 

Peter  was  silent,  and,  truth  to  tell,  terrified.  He  tried  hard 
not  to  feel  it,  and  glanced  at  Jenks.    He  was  still  asleep,  and 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  157 

breathing  heavily.  He  pressed  his  face  against  the  pane,  and 
tried  to  stare  up  too. 

"They're  coming,"  said  Langton  suddenly  and  quickly. 
"There  they  are,  too — Hun  planes.  They  may  not  see  us,  of 
course,  but  they  may.  .  .  ."  He  brought  his  head  in  again 
and  sat  down. 

"Is  there  anything  we  can  do?"  said  Peter. 

"Nothing,"  said  Langton,  "unless  you  like  to  get  under 
the  seat.  But  that's  no  real  good.  It's  on  the  knees  of  the 
gods,  padre,  whatever  gods  there  be." 

Just  then  Peter  saw  one.  Sailing  obliquely  towards  them 
and  lit  by  the  light  of  a  flare,  the  plane  looked  serene  and 
beautiful.     He  watched  it,  fascinated. 

"It's  very  low — two  hundred  feet,  I  should  say,"  said 
Langton  behind  him.  "Hope  he's  no  pills  left.  I  wonder 
whether  there's  another.     Let's  have  a  look  the  other  side." 

He  had  scarcely  got  up  to  cross  the  compartment  when 
the  rattle  of  a  machine-gun  very  near  broke  out.  "Our 
fellows,  likely,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly,  struggling  with  the 
sash,  but  they  knew  the  truth  almost  as  he  spoke. 

Langton  ducked  back.  A  plane  on  the  other  side  was 
deliberately  flying  up  the  train,  machine-gunning.  "Down, 
padre,  for  God's  sake!"  he  exclaimed,  and  threw  himself  on 
the  floor. 

Peter  couldn't  move.  He  heard  the  splintering  of  glass 
and  a  rending  of  woodwork,  some  oaths,  and  a  sudden  cry. 
The  whirr  of  an  engine  filled  his  ears  and  seemed,  as  it  were, 
on  top  of  them.  Then  there  was  a  crash  all  but  at  his  side, 
and  next  instant  a  half -smothered  groan  and  a  dreadful  gasp 
for  breath. 

He  couldn't  speak.  He  heard  Langton  say,  "Hit,  anyone?** 
and  then  Jenks'  "They've  got  me,  skipper,"  in  a  muffled 
whisper,  and  he  noticed  that  the  hard  breathing  had  ceased. 
At  that  he  found  strength  and  voice  and  jumped  up.  He 
bent  over  Jenks.  "Where  have  you  got  it,  old  man?"  he 
said,  and  hardly  realised  that  it  was  himself  speaking. 

The  other  was  lying  just  as  before,  on  his  back,  but  he 


158  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

had  pulled  his  knees  up  convulsively  and  a  rug  had  slipped 
off.  In  a  flare  Peter  saw  beads  of  sweat  on  iiis  forehead 
and  a  white,  twisted  face. 

He  choked  back  panic  and  knelt  down.  He  had  imagined 
it  all  before,  and  yet  not  quite  like  this.  He  knew  what  he 
ought  to  say,  but  for  a  minute  he  could  not  formulate  it. 
"Where  are  you  hit,  Jenks?"  was  all  he  said. 

The  other  turned  his  head  a  little  and  looked  at  him. 
"Body — lungs,  I  tiiink,"  he  whispered.  "I'm  done,  padre; 
I've  seen  chaps  before." 

The  words  trailed  off.  Peter  grippctl  himself  mentally, 
and  steadied  his  voice.  "Jenks,  old  man,"  he  said.  "Just  a 
minute.  Think  about  God — you  are  going  to  Him,  you 
know.  Trust  Him,  will  you?  'The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ, 
God's  Son,  saveth  us  from  all  sin.'  " 

The  dying  man  moved  his  hand  convulsively.  "Don't  you 
worry,  padre,"  he  said  faintly.  "I've  been — confirmed." 
The  lips  tightened  a  second  with  pain,  and  then:  "Keckon  I 
won't — shirk.     Have  you — got — a  cigarette?" 

Peter  felt  ([uickly  for  his  case,  fumbled  and  dropped  one, 
then  got  another  into  his  fingers.  He  hesitated  a  second, 
and  then  put  it  to  his  own  lips,  struck  a  match,  and  putTed 
at  it.  He  was  in  the  act  of  holding  it  to  the  other  when 
Langton  spoke  behind  him: 

"It's  no  good  now,  padre,"  he  said  quietly;  "it's  all  over." 

And  Peter  saw  that  it  was. 

The  j)lanes  did  not  come  back.  The  officer  in  charge  of 
the  train  came  down  it  with  a  lantern,  and  looked  in.  "That 
makes  three,"  he  said.  "We  can  do  nothing  now,  but  we'll 
be  in  the  station  in  a  bit.  Don't  show  any  lights ;  they  may 
come  back.  Where  the  hell  were  our  machines,  I'd  like  to 
know  ?" 

He  went  on,  and  Peter  sat  down  in  his  corner.  Langton 
picked  up  the  rug.  and  covered  up  the  body.  Then  he 
glanced  at  Peter.  "Here,"  he  said,  holding  out  a  flask,  "have 
some  of  this." 

Peter  shook  his  head.    Langton  came  over  to  him.    "You 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  159 

must,"  he  said ;  'it'll  pull  you  together.  Don't  go  under  now, 
Graham.    You  kept  your  nerve  just  now — come  on." 

At  that  Peter  took  it,  and  drained  the  little  cup  the  other 
poured  out  for  him.  Then  he  handed  it  back,  without  a 
word. 

"Feel  better?"  queried  the  other,  a  trifle  curiously,  staring 
at  him. 

"Yes,  thanks,"  said  Peter — "a  damned  sight  better!  Poor 
old  Jenks!  What  blasted  luck  that  he  should  have  got 
iti  .  .  .    Langton,  I  wish  to  God  it  had  been  me!" 


4 


PART  II 

'And  the  Lord  turned  and   looked   upon   Peter." 

St.  Luke's  Gospel. 


« 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  cli^irm  of  the  little  towns  of  Northern  France  is 
very  difficult  to  imprison  on  paper.  It  is  not  exactly 
that  they  are  old,  although  there  is  scarcely  one  which  has 
not  a  church  or  a  chateau  or  a  quaint  medieval  street  worth 
coming  far  to  see ;  nor  that  they  are  particularly  picturesque, 
for  the  ground  is  fairly  flat,  and  they  are  all  hut  always  set 
among  the  fields,  since  it  is  by  agriculture  far  more  than 
by  manufacture  that  they  live.  But  they  are  clean  and 
cheerful;  one  thinks  of  them  under  the  sun;  and  they  are 
very  homely.  In  them  the  folk  smile  simply  at  you,  but  not 
inquisitively  as  in  England,  for  each  bustles  gaily  about  his 
own  affairs,  and  will  let  you  do  what  you  please,  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  Abbeville  is  very  typical  of  all  this. 
It  has  its  church,  and  from  the  bridge  over  the  Somme  the 
backs  of  ancient  houses  can  be  seen  leaning  half  over  the 
river,  which  has  sung  beneath  them  for  five  hundred  years ; 
and  it  is  set  in  the  midst  of  memories  of  stirring  days.  Yet 
it  is  not  for  these  that  one  would  revisit  the  little  town,  but 
rather  that  one  might  walk  by  the  still  canal  under  '.he  high 
trees  in  spring,  or  loiter  in  the  market-place  round  what  the 
Hun  has  left  of  the  statue  of  the  famous  Adm»ial  with  his 
attendant  nymphs,  or  wander  dowi.  the  winding  streets  that 
skirt  the  ancient  church  and  give  glimpses  of  its  unfinished 
tower. 

Peter  found  it  very  good  to  be  there  in  the  days  that 
followed  the  death  of  Jenks.  True,  it  was  now  nearer  to 
the  seat  of  war  than  it  had  been  for  years,  and  air-raids  began 
to  be  common,  but  in  a  sense  the  sound  of  the  guns  fitted 
in  with  his  mood.  So  great  a  battle  was  being  fought  within 
him  that  tfci/e  world  could  not  in  any  case  have  seemed  wholly 

163 


1 64  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

at  peace,  and  yet  in  the  quiet  fields,  or  sauntering  of  an  after- 
noon by  the  river,  he  found  it  easier  than  at  Havre  to  think. 
Langton  was  ahnost  his  sole  companion,  and  a  considerable 
intimacy  had  grown  up  between  them.  Peter  found  that  his 
friend  seemed  to  understand  a  great  deal  of  his  thoughts 
without  explanation.  He  neither  condoled  nor  exhorted ; 
rather  he  watched  with  an  almost  shy  interest  the  other's 
inward  battle. 

They  lodged  at  the  Hotel  de  I'Angleterre,  that  hostelry  in 
the  street  that  leads  up  and  out  of  the  town  towards  Saint 
Riquier,  which  you  enter  from  a  courtyard  that  opens  on 
the  road  and  has  rooms  that  you  reach  by  means  of  narrow, 
rickety  flights  of  stairs  and  balconies  overhanging  the  court. 
The  big  dining-room  wore  an  air  of  gloomy  festivity.  Its 
chandeliers  swathed  in  brown  paper,  its  faded  paint,  and  its 
covered  upholstery,  suggested  that  it  awaited  a  day  yet  to  be 
when  it  should  blossom  forth  once  more  in  glory  as  in  the 
days  of  old.  Till  then  it  was  as  merry  as  it  could  be.  Its 
little  tables  filled  up  of  an  evening  with  the  new  cosmopolitan 
population  of  the  town,  and  old  Jacques  bustled  round  with 
the  good  wine,  and  dropped  no  hint  that  the  choice  brands 
were  nearly  at  an  end  in  the  cellar. 

Peter  and  Langton  would  have  their  war-time  apology  for 
petit  dejeuner  in  bed  or  alone.  Peter,  as  a  rule,  was  up  early, 
and  used  to  wander  out  a  little  and  sometimes  into  church, 
coming  back  to  coffee  as  good  as  ever,  but  war-time  bread 
instead  of  rolls,  on  a  small  table  under  a  low  balcony  in  the 
courtyard  if  it  were  fine.  He  would  linger  over  it,  and  have 
chance  conversations  with  passing  strangers  of  all  sorts,  from 
clerical  personages  belonging  to  the  Church  Army  or  the 
Y.M.C.A.  to  officers  who  came  and  went  usually  on  unre- 
vealed  affairs.  Then  Langton  would  come  down,  and  they 
would  stroll  round  to  the  newly-fitted-up  office  which  had 
been  prepared  for  the  lecture  campaign,  and  glance  at  maps 
of  districts,  and  exchange  news  with  the  officer  in  charge, 
who,  having  done  all  he  could,  had  now  nothing  to  do  but 
stand  by  and  wait  for  the  next  move  from  a  War  Office 


^   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  165 

that  had  either  forgotten  his  existence  or  discovered  some 
hitch  in  its  plans.  They  had  a  couple  of  lectures  from 
people  who  were  alleged  to  know  all  about  such  topics  as 
the  food  shortage  at  home  or  the  new  plans  for  housing, 
but  who  invariably  turned  out  to  be  waiting  themselves  for 
the  precise  information  that  was  necessary  for  successful 
lectures.  After  such  they  would  stroll  out  through  the  town 
into  the  fields,  and  Langton  would  criticise  the  thing  in  lurid 
but  humorous  language,  and  they  would  come  back  to  the 
club  and  sit  or  read  till  lunch. 

The  club  was  one  of  the  best  in  France.  It  was  an  old 
house  with  lovely  furniture,  and  not  too  much  of  it,  which 
stood  well  back  from  the  street  and  boasted  an  old-fashioned 
garden  of  shady  trees  and  spring  flowers  and  green  lawns. 
Peter  could  both  read  and  write  in  its  rooms,  and  it  was 
there  that  he  finally  wTote  to  Hilda,  but  not  until  after  much 
thought. 

After  his  day  with  Julie  at  Caudebec  one  might  have 
supposed  tliat  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  to  do  but  break 
off  his  engagement  to  Hilda.  But  it  did  not  strike  him  so. 
For  one  thing,  he  was  not  engaged  to  Julie  or  anything  like 
it,  and  he  could  not  imagine  such  a  situation,  even  if  Julie 
had  not  positively  repudiated  any  desire  to  be  either  engaged 
or  married.  He  had  certainly  declared,  in  a  fit  of  enthusiasrr^ 
that  he  loved  her,  but  he  had  not  asked  if  she  loved  him.  H^ 
had  seen  her  since,  but  although  they  were  very  good  friends, 
nothing  more  exciting  had  passed  between  them.  Peter  was 
conscious  that  when  he  was  with  Julie  she  fascinated  him, 
but  that  when  he  was  away — ah !  that  was  it,  when  he  was 
away?  It  certainly  was  not  that  Hilda  came  back  and  took 
her  place;  it  was  rather  that  the  other  things  in  his  mind 
dominated  him.  It  was  a  curious  state  of  affairs.  He  was 
less  like  an  orthodox  parson  than  he  had  ever  been,  and 
yet  he  had  never  thought  so  much  about  religion.  He 
agonised  over  it  now.  At  times  his  thoughts  were  almost 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

It  came,  then,  to  this,  that  he  had  not  so  much  changed 


i66  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

towards  Hilda  as  changed  towards  life.  Whether  he  had 
really  fundamentally  changed  in  such  a  way  that  a  break 
with  the  old  was  inevitable  he  did  not  know.  Till  then 
Hilda  was  part  of  the  old,  and  if  he  went  back  to  it  she 
naturally  took  her  old  place  in  it.  If  he  did  not — well,  there 
he  invariably  came  to  the  end  of  thought.  Curiously  enough, 
it  was  when  faced  with  a  mental  blank  that  Julie's  image 
began  to  rise  in  his  mind.  If  he  admitted  her,  he  found 
himself  abandoning  himself  to  her.  He  felt  sometimes  that 
if  he  could  but  take  her  in  his  arms  he  could  let  the  world 
go  by,  and  God  with  it.  Her  kisses  were  at  least  a  reality. 
There  was  neither  convention  nor  subterfuge  nor  divided 
allegiance  there.  She  was  passion,  naked  and  unashamed, 
and  at  least  real. 

And  then  he  would  remember  that  much  of  this  was 
problematical  after  all,  for  they  had  never  kissed  as  that 
passion  demanded,  or  at  least  that  he  had  never  so  kissed 
her.  He  was  not  sure  of  the  first.  He  knew  that  he  did  not 
understand  Julie,  but  he  felt,  if  he  did  kiss  her,  it  would 
be  a  kiss  of  surrender,  of  finality.  He  feared  to  look  beyond 
'that,  and  he  could  not  if  he  would. 

He  wrote,  then,  to  Hilda,  and  he  told  of  the  death  of  Jcnks, 
and  of  their  arrival  in  Abbeville.  "Vou  must  understand, 
dear,"  he  said,  "that  all  this  has  had  a  tremendous  effect 
upon  me.  In  that  train  all  that  I  had  begun  to  feel  about 
the  usclessness  of  my  old  religion  came  to  a  head.  I  could 
do  no  more  for  that  soul  than  light  a  cigarette.  .  .  .  Possibly 
no  one  could  have  done  any  more,  but  I  cannot,  I  will  not 
believe  it.  Jenks  was  not  fundamentally  evil,  or  at  least  1 
don't  think  so.  He  was  rather  a  selfish  fool  who  had  no 
control,  that  is  all.  Pie  did  not  serve  tlie  devil;  it  was  much 
more  that  he  had  never  seen  any  master  to  serve.  And  I 
could  do  nothing.    I  had  no  master  to  show  him. 

"You  may  say  that  that  is  absurd :  that  Christ  is  my 
Master,  and  I  could  have  shown  Him.  Hilda,  so  He  is; 
I  cling  passionately  to  tliat.    But  listen :  I  can't  express  Him, 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  167 

I  don't  understand  Him.  I  no  longer  feel  that  He  was 
animating  and  ordering  the  form  of  reHgion  I  administered. 
It  is  not  that  I  feel  Anglicanism  to  be  untrue,  and  something 
else — say  Wesleyanism — to  be  true;  it  is  much  more  that  I 
feel  them  all  to  be  out  of  touch  with  reality.  That's  it.  I 
doii't  think  you  can  possibly  see  it,  but  that  is  the  main 
trouble. 

"That,  too,  brings  me  to  my  next  point,  and  this  I  find 
harder  still  to  express.  I  want  you  to  realise  that  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  never  seen  life  before.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been 
shown  all  my  days  a  certain  number  of  pictures  and  told 
that  they  were  the  real  thing,  or  given  certain  descriptions 
and  told  that  they  were  true.  I  had  always  accepted  that 
they  were.  But,  Hilda,  they  are  not.  Wickedness  is  not 
wicked  in  the  way  that  I  was  told  it  was  wicked,  and  what 
I  was  told  was  salvation  is  not  the  salvation  men  and  women 
want.  I  have  been  playing  in  a  fool's  paradise  all  these 
years,  and  I've  got  outside  the  gate.  I  am  distressed  and 
terrified,  I  think,  but  underneath  it  all  I  am  very  glad.  .  .  . 

"You  will  say,  'What  are  you  going  to  dor'  and  I  can 
only  reply,  I  don't  know.  I'm  not  going  to  make  any  vast 
change,  if  you  mean  that.  A  padre  I  am,  and  a  padre  I 
shall  stay  for  the  war  at  least,  and  none  of  us  can  see  beyond 
that  at  present.  But  what  I  do  mean  to  do  is  just  this:  I 
mean  to  try  and  get  down  to  reality  myself  and  try  to  weigh 
it  up.  I  am  going  to  eat  and  drink  with  publicans  and 
sinners;  maybe  I  shall  find  my  Master  still  there." 

Peter  stopped  and  looked  up.  Langton  was  stretched  out 
in  a  chair  beside  him,  reading  a  novel,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
Moved  by  an  impulse,  he  interrupted  him. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  let  me  read  you  a  bit 
of  this  letter.  It's  to  my  girl,  but  there's  notliing  rotten  in 
reading  it.     May  I?" 

Langton  did  not  move.     "Carry  on,"  he  said  shortly. 

Peter  finished  and  put  down  the  sheet.  The  other  smoked 
placidly  and  said  nothing.  "W^ell?"  demanded  Peter  im- 
patiently. 


i68  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"I  should  cut  out  that  last  sentence,"  pronounced  the  judge. 

"Why  ?     It's  true." 

"Maybe,  but  it  isn't  pretty." 

"Langton,"  burst  out  Peter,  "I'm  sick  of  prcttinesses ! 
I've  been  stufTed  up  with  them  all  my  life,  and  so  has  she. 
I  want  to  break  witli  them." 

"Very  likely,  and  I  don't  say  that  it  won't  be  the  best  thing 
for  you  to  try  for  a  litilc  to  do  so,  but  she  hasn't  been  where 
you've  been,  or  seen  what  you've  seen.  You  can't  expect 
her  wholly  to  understand.  And  more  than  that,  maybe  she 
is  meant  for  prettinesses.     After  all,  they're  pretty." 

Peter  stabbed  the  blotting-paper  with  his  pen.  "Then  she 
isn't  meant  for  me,"  he  said. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  said  Langton.  "I  don't  know  that 
you've  stiifT  enough  in  you  to  get  on  without  those  same 
prcttinesses  yourself.  Most  of  us  haven't.  And  at  any  rate 
I  wouldn't  burn  my  boats  yet  awhile.  You  may  want  to 
escape  yet." 

Peter  considered  this  in  silence.  Then  he  drew  the  sheets 
to  him  and  added  a  few  more  words,  folded  the  paper,  put  it 
in  the  envelope,  and  stuck  it  down.  "Come  on,"  he  said, 
*'let's  go  and  post  this  and  have  a  walk." 

Langton  got  up  and  looked  at  him  curiously,  as  he  some- 
times did.  "Peter,"  he  said,  "you're  a  weird  blighter,  but 
there's  something  damned  gritty  in  you.  You  take  life  too 
strenuously.     Why  can't  you  saunter  through  it  like  I  do?" 

Peter  reached  for  his  cap.  "Come  on,"  he  said  again, 
"and  don't  talk  rot." 

Out  in  the  street,  tliey  strolled  aimlessly  on,  more  or  less 
in  silence.  The  big  bookshop  at  the  corner  detained  them 
for  a  little,  and  they  regarded  its  variegated  contents  through 
the  glass.  It  contained  a  few  good  prints,  and  many  more 
poorly  executed  coloured  pictures  of  ruined  places  in  France 
and  Belgium,  of  which  a  few,  however,  were  not  bad. 
Cheek  by  jowl  with  some  religious  works,  a  statue  of  Notre 
Dame  d'Albert,  and  some  more  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  were  a 
line  of  pornographic  novels  and  beyond  packets  of  picture 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  169 

post -cards  entitled  Thedtreuses,  Le  Bain  dc  la  Parisicnne, 
Les  Seins  dcs  Marbrc,  and  so  on.  Then  Langton  drew 
Graham's  attention  to  one  or  two  other  books,  one  of  which 
had  a  gaudy  cover  representing  a  mistress  with  a  birch-rod 
in  her  hands  and  a  number  of  canes  hung  up  beside  her, 
while  a  girl  of  fifteen  or  so,  with  very  red  cheeks,  w^as  ap- 
parently about  to  be  whipped.  "Good  Lord,"  said  Langton, 
"the  French  are  beyond  me.  This  window  is  a  study  for 
you,  Graham,  in  itself.  I  should  take  it  that  it  means  that 
there  is  nothing  real  in  life.    It  is  utterly  cynical. 

"  'And  if  the  Wine  you  drink,  the  Lip  you  press, 
End  in  what  All  begins  and  ends  in — Yes ; 
Think  then  you  are  To-day  what  Yesterday 
You  were — To-morrow  you  shall  not  be  less,' " 

he  quoted. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter.  "Or  else  it  means  that  there  are  only 
two  realities,  and  that  the  excellent  person  who  keeps  this 
establishment  regards  both  in  a  detached  way,  and  conceives 
it  her  business  to  cater  for  each.     Let's  go  on." 

They  turned  the  corner,  and  presently  found  themselves 
outside  the  famous  carven  door  of  the  church.  "Have  you 
ever  been  round  ?"  asked  Peter. 

"No,"  said  Langton ;  "let's  go  in." 

They  passed  through  the  door  into  the  old  church,  which, 
in  contrast  to  that  at  Le  Havre,  was  bathed  in  the  daylight 
that  streamed  through  many  clear  windows.  Together  they 
wandered  round  it,  saying  little.  They  inspected  an 
eighteenth-century  statue  of  St.  Roch,  who  was  pulhng  up 
his  robe  to  expose  a  wound  and  looking  upwards  at  the 
same  time  seraphically — or,  at  least,  after  the  manner  that 
the  artist  of  that  age  had  regarded  as  seraphic.  A  number 
of  white  ribbons  and  some  wax  figures  of  feet  and  hands  and 
other  parts  of  the  body  were  tied  to  him.  They  stood  before 
a  wonderful  coloured  alabaster  reredos  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  in  which  shepherds  and  kings  and  beasts  came  to 
worship  at  the  manger.  They  had  a  little  conversation  as  to 
the  architectural  periods  of  the  nave,  choir,  and  transepts,  and 


I70  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Langton  was  enthusiastic  over  a  noble  pillar  and  arch.  Be- 
yond they  gazed  in  silence  at  a  statue  of  Our  Lady  Immacu- 
late in  modern  coloured  plaster,  so  arranged  that  the  daylight 
fell  through  an  unseen  opening  upon  her.  Among  the  objects 
in  front  were  a  pair  of  Renaissance  candlesticks  of  great 
beauty.  A  French  officer  came  up  and  arranged  and  lit  a 
votive  candle  as  they  watched,  and  then  went  back  to  stand 
in  silence  by  a  pillar.  The  church  door  banged  and  two 
peasants  came  in,  one  obviously  from  the  market,  with  a 
huge  basket  of  carrots  and  cabbages  and  some  long,  thin 
French  loaves.  She  deposited  this  just  inside  the  door,  took 
holy  water,  clattered  up  towards  the  high  altar,  dropped  a 
curtsy,  and  made  her  way  to  an  altar  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  at 
which  she  knelt.  Peter  sighed.  "Come  on,"  he  said;  "let's 
get  out." 

Langton  marched  on  before  him,  and  held  the  door  back 
as  they  stepped  into  the  street.  "Well,  philosopher,"  he 
demanded,  "what  do  you  make  of  that?" 

Peter  smiled.     "What  do  you?"  he  said. 

"W^ell,"  said  Langton,  "it  leaves  me  unmoved,  except  when 
I'm  annoyed  by  the  way  their  wretched  images  spoil  the 
church,  but  it  is  plain  that  they  like  it.  I  should  say  one  of 
your  two  realities  is  there.  But  I  find  it  hard  to  forgive  the 
bad  art." 

"Do  you  ?"  said  Peter.  *T  don't.  It  reminds  me  of  those 
appalling  enlargements  of  family  groups  that  you  see,  for 
example,  in  any  Yorkshire  cottage.  They  are  unutterably 
hideous,  but  they  stand  for  a  real  thing  that  is  honest  and 
beautiful — the  love  of  home  and  family.  And  by  the  same 
token,  when  the  photographs  got  exchanged,  as  they  do  in 
May  fair,  for  modern  French  pictures  of  nude  women,  or 
some  incredible  Futurist  extravagance,  that  love  has  usually 
flown  out  of  the  window." 

"Humph !"  said  I-^ngton — "not  always.  Besides,  why 
tan't  a  family  group  be  made  artistically,  and  so  keep  both 
art  and  love  ?    I  should  think  we  ought  to  aim  at  that." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  171 

"I  suppose  we  ought,"  said  Peter,  "but  in  our  age  the 
two  don't  seem  to  go  together.  Goodness  alone  knows  why. 
Why,  hullo !"  he  broke  off. 

"What's  up  now?"  demanded  Langton. 

"Why,  there,  across  the  street,  if  that  isn't  a  nurse  I  know 
from  Havre,  I  don't  know  who  it  is.    Wait  a  tick." 

He  crossed  the  road,  and  saw,  as  he  got  near,  that  it  was 
indeed  Julie.  He  came  up  behind  her  as  she  examined  a 
shop-window.  "By  all  that's  wonderful,  what  are  you  doing 
here  ?"  he  asked. 

She  turned  quickly,  her  eyes  dancing.  "I  wondered  if  I 
should  meet  you,"  she  said.  "You  see,  your  letter  told  me 
you  were  coming  here,  but  I  haven't  heard  from  you  since 
you  came,  and  I  didn't  know  if  you  had  started  your  tour 
or  not.  /  came  simply  enough.  There's  a  big  South  African 
hospital  here,  and  we  had  to  send  up  a  batch  of  men  by  motor. 
As  they  knew  I  was  from  South  Africa,  they  gave  me  the 
chance  to  come  with  them." 

"Well,  I  am  glad,"  said  Peter,  devouring  the  sight  of  her. 
"Wait  a  minute ;  I  must  introduce  you  to  Langton.  He  and 
I  are  together,  and  he's  a  jolly  good  chap." 

He  turned  and  beckoned  Langton,  who  came  over  and  was 
introduced.  They  walked  up  the  street  a  little  way  together. 
"Where  are  you  going  now?"  asked  Peter. 

"Back  to  the  hospital,"  said  Julie.  "A  car  starts  from  the 
square  at  twelve-forty-five,  and  I  have  to  be  in  for  lunch." 

"Have  you  much  to  do  up  there?"  asked  Peter. 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  "my  job's  done.  I  clear  off  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  We  only  got  in  last  night,  so  I  get  a 
couple  of  days'  holiday.  What  are  you  doing?  You  don't 
look  any  too  busy." 

Peter  glanced  across  at  Langton  and  laughed.  "We 
aren't,"  he  said.  "The  whole  stunt's  a  wash-out,  if  you  ask 
me,  and  we're  really  expecting  to  be  sent  back  any  day. 
There's  too  much  doing  now  for  lectures.  Is  tlie  hospital 
full?" 


172  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Packed,"  said  Julie  gravely.  "The  papers  say  we're 
falling  back  steadily  so  as  not  to  lose  men,  but  the  facts  don't 
bear  it  out.  We're  crammed  out.  It's  ghastly ;  I've  never 
known  it  so  bad." 

Peter  had  hardly  ever  seen  her  grave  before,  and  her  face 
showed  a  new  aspect  of  her.  He  felt  a  glow  of  warmth  steal 
over  him.  "I  say,"  he  said,  "couldn't  you  dine  with  us 
to-night?  We're  at  the  Angleterre,  and  its  tremendously 
respectable." 

She  laughed,  her  gravity  vanishing  in  a  minute.  "I  must 
say,"  she  said,  "that  I'd  love  to  see  you  anywhere  really 
respectable.  He's  a  terrible  person  for  a  padre — don't  you 
think  so.  Captain  Langton?" 

"Terrible,"  said  Langton.  "But  really  the  Angleterre  is 
quite  proper.  You  don't  get  any  too  bad  a  dinner,  either. 
Do  come.  Miss  Gamelyn." 

She  appeared  to  consider.  "I  might  manage  it,"  she  said 
at  las*:,  stopping  just  short  of  entering  the  square;  "but  I 
haven't  the  nerve  to  burst  in  and  ask  for  you.  Mor  will  it 
do  for  you  to  see  me  all  the  way  to  that  car,  or  we  shall  have 
a  dozen  girls  talking.  If  you  will  meet  me  somewhere,"  she 
added,  looking  at  Peter,  "I'll  risk  it.  I'll  have  a  hc.idache  and 
not  go  to  first  dinner ;  then  the  first  will  think  I'm  at  the 
second,  and  the  second  at  the  first.  Besides,  I've  no  duty,  and 
the  hospital's  not  like  Havre.  It's  all  spread  out  in  huts  and 
tents,  and  it's  easy  enough  to  get  in.  Last,  but  not  least,  it's 
Colonial,  and  the  matron  is  a  brick.    Yes,  I'll  come." 

"Hurrah!"  said  Peter.  "I  tell  you  v\'haf  I'll  meet  you 
at  the  cross-roads  below  the  hospital  and  bring  you  on. 
Will  that  do?     What  time?    Five-thirty?" 

"Heavens!  do  you  dine  at  five-thirty?"  demanded  Julie. 

"Well,  not  quite,  but  we've  got  to  get  down,"  said  Peter, 
laughing. 

"All  right,"  said  Julie,  "five-thirty,  and  the  saints  preserve 
us.  Look  here,  I  shall  chance  it  and  come  in  mufti  if  pos- 
sible.   No  one  knows  me  here." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  173 

"Splendid!"  said  Peter.    "Good-bye,  five-thirty." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Langton;  "we'll  go  and  arrange  our 
menu." 

"There  must  be  cham|xigne,"  called  Julie  merrily  over  her 
shoulder,  and  catching  his  eye. 

The  two  men  watched  her  make  for  the  car  across  the 
sunlit  square,  then  they  strolled  round  it  towards  a  cafe. 
"Come  on,"  said  Langton;  "let's  have  an  appetiser." 

From  the  little  marble-topped  table  Peter  watched  the  car 
drive  away.  Julie  was  laughing  over  something  with  another 
girl.  It  seemed  to  conclude  the  morning,  somehow.  He 
raised  his  glass  and  looked  at  Langton.  "Well,"  he  said, 
"here's  to  reality,  wherever  it  is." 

"And  here's  to  getting  along  without  too  much  of  it,"  said 
Langton,  smiling  at  him. 

The  dinner  was  a  great  success — at  least,  in  the  beginning. 
Julie  wore  a  frock  of  some  soft  brown  stuff,  and  Peter  could 
hardly  keep  his  eyes  off  her.  He  had  never  seen  her  out 
ot  uniform  before,  and  although  she  was  gay  enough,  she 
said  and  did  nothing  very  exciting.  If  Hilda  had  been  there 
she  need  hardly  have  behaved  differently,  and  for  a  while 
Peter  was  wholly  delighted.  Then  it  began  to  dawn  on 
him  that  she  was  playing  up  to  Langton,  and  that  set  in  train 
irritating  thoughts.  He  watched  the  other  jealously,  and 
noticed  how  the  girl  drew  him  out  to  speak  of  his  travels, 
and  how  excellently  he  did  it,  leaning  back  at  coffee  with  his 
cigarette,  polite,  pleasant,  attractive.  Julie,  who  usually 
smoked  cigarette  after  cigarette  furiously,  only,  however, 
getting  through  about  half  of  each,  now  refused  a  second, 
and  glanced  at  the  clock  about  8.30. 

"dh,"  she  said,  "I  must  go." 

Peter  remonstrated.  "If  you  can  stay  out  later  at  Havre,** 
he  said,  "why  not  here?" 

She  laughed  lightly.  "I'm  reforming,"  she  said,  "in  the 
absence  of  bad  companions.     Besides,  they  are  used  to  my 


174  SIiMON  CALLED  PETER 

being  later  at  Havre,  but  here  I  might  be  spotted,  and  then 
there  would  be  trouble.  Would  you  fetch  my  coat,  Captain 
Graham  ?" 

Peter  went  obediently,  and  they  all  three  moved  out  into 
the  court. 

"Come  along  and  see  her  home,  Langton,"  he  said,  though 
he  hardly  knew  why  he  included  the  other. 

"Thanks,"  said  his  friend;  "but  if  Miss  Gamelyn  will 
excuse  me,  I  ought  not.  I've  got  some  reading  I  must  do  for 
to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  write  a  letter  or  two  as  well. 
You'll  be  an  admirable  escort,  Graham." 

"Good-night,"  said  Julie,  holding  out  her  hand ;  "perhaps 
we  shall  meet  again  some  time.  One  is  always  running  up 
against  people  in  France.  And  thank  you  so  much  for  your 
share  of  the  entertainment." 

In  a  few  seconds  Peter  and  she  were  outside.  The  street 
was  much  darkened,  and  there  was  no  moon.  They  walked 
in  silence  for  a  little.  Suddenly  he  stopped.  "Wouldn't  you 
like  a  cab  ?"  he  said ;  "we  might  be  able  to  get  one." 

Julie  laughed  mischievously,  and  Peter  gave  a  little  start 
in  the  dark.  It  struck  him  that  this  was  the  old  laugh,  and 
tliat  he  had  not  heard  it  that  night  before.  "It's  convenient, 
of  course,"  she  said  mockingly.  "Do  get  one  by  all  means. 
But  last  time  I  came  home  with  you  in  a  cab,  you  let  me 
finish  alone.    I  thought  tliat  was  to  be  an  invariable  rule." 

"Oh,  don't  Julie,"  said  Peter. 

Her  tone  changed.  "Why  not?"  she  demanded.  "Solo- 
mon, what's  made  you  so  glum  to-night?  You  were  cheerful 
enough  when  you  met  me,  and  when  we  began ;  then  you  got 
silent.     What's  the  matter?" 

"Nothing,"  he  said. 

She  slipped  her  hand  in  his  arm.  "There  is  something," 
she  said.    "Do  tell  me." 

"Do  you  like  Langton?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  immensely — why  ?  Oh,  Lord,  Solomon,  what  do 
you  mean  ?" 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  175 

"You  were  different  in  his  presence,  Julie,  from  anything 
you've  been  before." 

They  took  a  few  paces  in  silence ;  then  Peter  had  an  idea, 
and  glanced  at  her.  She  was  laughing  silently  to  herself. 
He  let  her  hand  fall  from  his  arm,  and  looked  away.  He 
knew  he  was  behaving  like  an  ass,  but  he  could  not  help  it. 

She  stopped  suddenly.  "Peter,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  talk 
to  you.    Take  me  somewhere  where  it's  possible." 

"At  this  hour  of  the  evening?    What  about  being  late?" 

She  gave  a  little  stamp  with  her  foot,  then  laughed  again. 
"What  a  boy  it  is !"  she  said.  "Don't  you  know  anywhere 
to  go?" 

Peter  hesitated ;  then  he  made  up  his  mind.  There  was 
an  hotel  he  knew  of,  out  of  the  main  street,  of  none  too  good 
a  reputation.  Some  men  had  taken  Langton  and  him  there, 
once,  in  the  afternoon,  between  the  hours  in  which  drinks 
were  legally  sold,  and  they  had  gone  through  the  hall  into 
a  little  back-room  that  was  apparently  partly  a  sitting-room, 
partly  part  of  the  private  rooms  of  the  landlord,  and  had 
been  served  there.  He  recalled  the  description  of  one  of  the 
men :  "It's  a  place  to  know.  You  can  always  get  a  drink,  and 
take  in  anyone  you  please." 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  said,  and  turned  down  a  back-street 

"Where  in  the  world  are  you  taking  me?"  demanded  Julie. 
"I  shall  have  no  reputation  left  if  this  gets  out." 

"Nor  shall  I,"  said  Peter. 

"Nor  you  will ;  what  a  spree !  Do  you  think  it's  worth  it, 
Peter?" 

Under  a  shaded  lamp  tliey  were  passing  at  the  moment,  he 
glanced  at  her,  and  his  pulses  raced.  "Good  God,  Julie!" 
he  said,  ''you  could  do  anything  with  me." 

She  cliuckled  with  laughter,  her  brown  eyes  dancing. 
"Maybe,"  she  said,  "but  I'm  out  to  talk  to  you  for  your 
good  now." 

They  turned  another  corner,  into  an  old  street,  and  under 
an  arch.     Peter  walked  forward  to  the  hotel  entrance,  and 


176  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

entered.  There  was  a  woman  in  the  office,  who  glanced  up, 
and  looked,  first  at  Peter,  then  at  Julie.  On  seeing  her  behind 
him,  she  came  forward.  "What  can  I  do  for  monsieur?" 
she  asked. 

"Good -evening,  madame,"  said  Peter.  "I  was  here  the 
other  day.  Give  us  a  bottle  of  wine  in  that  little  room  at 
the  back,  will  you?" 

"Why,  certainly,  monsieur,"  said  she.  "Will  madame 
follow  me?    It  is  this  way." 

She  opened  the  door,  and  switched  on  the  light.  "Sliall 
I  light  the  fire,  madame  ?"'she  demanded. 

Julie  beamed  on  her.  "Ah,  yes ;  that  would  be  jolly,"  she 
said.     "And  the  wine,  madame — Beaune." 

The  woman  smiled  and  bowed.  "Let  madame  but  seat 
herself,  and  it  shall  come,"  she  said,  and  went  out. 

Julie  took  otT  her  hat,  and  walked  to  the  glass,  patting  her 
hair.  "Give  me  a  cigarette,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "It  was 
jolly  hard  only  to  smoke  one  to-night." 

Peter  opened  and  handed  her  his  case  in  silence,  then 
pulled  up  a  big  chair.  There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and 
a  girl  came  in  with,  the  wine  and  glasses,  which  she  set  on 
the  table,  and  then  knelt  down  to  light  the  fire.  She  with- 
drew and  shut  the  door.    They  were  alone. 

Peter  was  still  standing.  Julie  glanced  at  him,  and  pointed 
to  a  chair  opposite.  "Give  me  a  drink,  and  then  go  and  sit 
there,"  she  said. 

He  obeyed.  She  pulled  her  skirts  up  high  to  the  blaze  and 
pushed  one  foot  out  to  the  logs,  and  sat  there,  provocative, 
sipping  her  wine  and  puffing  little  puffs  of  smoke  from  her 
cigarette.  "Now,  then,"  she  said,  "what  did  I  do  wrong 
to-night  ?" 

Peter  was  horribly  uncomfortable.  He  felt  how  little  he 
knew  this  girl,  and  he  felt  also  how  much  he  loved  her. 

"Nothing,  dear,"  he  said ;  "I  was  a  beast." 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  won't  tell  me,  I'll  tell  you.  I 
was  quite  proper  to-night,  immensely  and  intensely  proper, 
and  you  didn't  like  it.     You  had  never  seen  me  so.     You 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  177 

thought,  too,  that  I  was  making  up  to  your  friend.  Isn't 
that  so  ?" 

Peter  nodded.  He  marvelled  that  she  should  know  so  well, 
and  he  wondered  what  was  coming. 

"I  wonder  what  you  really  think  of  me,  Peter,"  she  went 
on.  "I  suppose  you  think  I  never  can  be  serious — no,  I 
won't  say  serious — conventional.  But  you're  very  stupid; 
we  all  of  us  can  be,  and  must  be  sometimes.  You  asked  me 
just  now  what  I  thought  of  your  friend — well,  I'll  tell  you. 
He  is  as  different  from  you  as  possible.  He  has  his  thoughts, 
no  doubt,  but  he  prefers  to  be  very  tidy.  He  takes  refuge  in 
the  things  you  throw  overboard.  He's  not  at  all  my  sort, 
and  he's  not  yours  either,  in  a  way.  Goodness  knows  what 
will  happen  to  either  of  us,  but  he'll  be  Captain  Langton 
to  the  end  of  his  days.  I  envy  that  sort  of  person  intensely, 
and  when  I  meet  him  I  put  on  armour.    See  ?" 

Peter  stared  at  her.  "How  is  he  different  from  Donovan?'* 
he  asked. 

"Donovan !  Oh,  Lord,  Peter,  how  dull  you  are !  Donovan 
has  hardly  a  thought  in  his  head  about  anything  except  Dono- 
van. He  was  born  a  jolly  good  sort,  and  he's  sampled  pretty 
well  everything.  He's  cool  as  a  cucumber,  though  he  has  his 
passions  like  everyone  else.  If  you  keep  your  head,  you  can 
say  or  do  anything  with  Donovan.  But  Langton  is  delib- 
erate. He  knows  about  things,  and  he  refuses  and  chooses. 
I  didn't  want  .  .  ."  She  broke  off.  "Peter,"  she  said 
savagely,  "in  two  minutes  that  man  would  know  more  about 
me  than  you  do,  if  I  let  him." 

He  had  never  seen  her  so.  The  childish  brown  eyes  had 
a  look  in  them  that  reminded  him  of  an  animal  caught  in  a 
trap.  He  sprang  up  and  dropped  on  his  knees  by  her  side, 
catching  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Julie,  don't,"  he  said.  "What  do  you  mean?  What 
is  there  about  you  that  I  don't  know  ?  How  are  you  different 
from  either  of  them?" 

She  threw  her  cigarette  away,  and  ran  her  fingers  through 
his  hair,  then  made  a  gesture,  almost  as  if  pushing  something 


178  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

away,  Peter  thought,  and  laughed  her  old  ringing  trill  of 
laughter. 

"Lor',  Peter,  was  I  tragic  ?  I  didn't  mean  to  be,  my  dear. 
There's  a  lot  about  me  that  you  don't  know,  but  something 
that  you've  guessed.  I  can't  abide  shams  and  conventions 
really.  Let's  have  life,  I  say,  whatever  it  is.  Heavens! 
Pve  seen  street  girls  with  more  in  them  than  I  pretended  to 
your  friend  to  have  in  me  to-night.  They  at  least  deal  with 
human  nature  in  the  raw.  But  that's  why  I  love  you ;  there's 
no  need  to  pretend  to  you,  partly  because,  at  bottom,  you 
like  real  things  as  much  as  I,  and  partly  because — oh,  never 
mind." 

"Julie,  I  do  mind — tell  me,"  he  insisted. 

H*^r  face  changed  again.  "Not  now,  Peter,"  she  said. 
"Perhaps  one  day — who  can  say?  Meantime,  go  on  liking 
me,  will  you?" 

"Like  you!"  he  exclaimed,  springing  up.  "Why,  I  adore 
you  !  I  love  you !  Oh,  Julie,  I  love  you !  Kiss  me,  darling, 
now,  quick !" 

She  pushed  him  ofT.  "Not  now,"  she  cried;  "Pve  got  to 
have  my  revenge.  1  know  why  you  wouldn't  come  home  in 
the  cab!  Come!  we'll  clink  glasses,  but  that's  all  there  is  to 
be  done  to-night!"  She  sprang  up,  flushed  and  glowing,  and 
held  out  an  empty  glass. 

Peter  filled  hers  and  his,  and  they  stood  opposite  to  each 
other.  She  looked  across  the  wine  at  him,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  tliat  he  read  a  longing  and  a  passion  in  her  eyes,  deep 
down  below  the  merriness  that  was  there  now.  "Cheerio, 
old  boy,"  she  said,  raising  hers.  "And  'here's  to  the  day 
when  your  big  boots  and  my  little  shoes  lie  outside  the  same 
closed  door !'  " 

"Julie !"  he  said,  "you  don't  mean  it !" 

"Don't  I?  How  do  you  know,  old  sober-sides.  Come, 
buck  up,  Solomon ;  we've  been  sentimental  long  enough.  Pd 
like  to  go  to  a  music-hall  now  or  do  a  skirt-dance.  But 
neither's  really  possible;  certainly  not  the  first,  and  you'd 
be  shocked  at  the  second.     Pm  half  a  mind  to  shock  you, 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  179 

though,  only  my  skirt's  not  long  and  wide  enough,  and  I've 
not  enough  lace  underneath.     I'll  spare  you.    Come  on!" 

She  seized  her  hat  and  put  it  on.  They  went  out  into  the 
hall.  There  was  a  man  in  uniform  there,  at  the  office,  and  a 
girl,  French  and  unmistakable,  who  glanced  at  Julie,  and 
then  turned  away.  Julie  nodded  to  madame,  and  did  not 
glance  at  the  man,  but  as  she  passed  the  girl  she  said  dis- 
tinctly, "Bon  soir,  mademoiselle."  The  girl  started  and 
turned  towards  her.    Julie  smiled  sweetly  and  passed  on. 

Peter  took  her  arm  in  the  street,  for  it  was  quite  dark 
and  deserted. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  he  said. 

"What?"  she  demanded. 

"Speak  to  that  girl.     Vou  know  what  she  is?" 

"I  do — a  poor  devil  that's  playing  with  Fate  for  the  sakt 
of  a  laugh  and  a  bit  of  ribbon.  I'm  jolly  sorry  for  her,  for 
they  are  both  worth  a  great  deal,  and  it's  hard  to  be  cheated 
into  thinking  you've  got  them  when  Fate  is  really  winning 
the  deal.  And  I  saw  her  face  before  she  turned  away.  Why 
do  you  think  she  turned  away,  Peter  ?  Not  because  she  was 
ashamed,  but  because  she  is  beginning  to  know  that  Fate 
wins.  Oh,  la!  la!  what  a  world!  Let's  be  more  cheerful. 
'There's  a  long,  long  trail  a^winding.' "  she  hummed. 

Peter  laughed.  "Oh,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "was  there  ever 
anyone  like  you  ?" 

Langton  was  reading  in  his  room  when  Peter  looked  in 
to  say  good-night. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.    "See  her  home?" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter.    "What  did  you  think  of  her?" 

"She's  fathoms  deep,  I  should  say.  But  I  should  take 
fare  if  I  were  you,  my  boy.  It's  all  very  well  to  eat  and 
drink  with  publicans  and  sinners,  though,  as  I  told  you,  it's 
better  no  one  should  know.  But  they  are  dangerous  company. 

"Why  especially?"  demanded  Peter. 

Langton  stretched  himself.  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said. 
"Perhaps  because  society's  agin  'em." 

"Look  here,  Langton,"  said  Peter.     "Do  you  hear  what 


l8o  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

I  say?  Damn  society!  Besides,  do  you  think  your  descrip- 
tion applies  to  that  girl  ?" 

Langton  smiled.  "No,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  think  so, 
but  she's  not  your  sort,  Peter.  When  you  take  that  tunic 
off,  you've  got  to  put  on  a  black  coat.  Whatever  conclusions 
you  come  to,  don't  forget  that." 

"Have  I?"  said  Peter;  "I  wonder." 

Langton  got  up.  "Of  course  you  have,"  he  said.  "Life's 
a  bit  of  a  farce,  but  one's  got  to  play  it.  See  here,  I  believe 
in  facing  facts  and  getting  one's  eyes  open,  but  not  in  making 
oneself  a  fool.    Nothing's  worth  that." 

"Isn't  it?"  said  Peter;  and  again,  "I  wonder." 

"Well,  I  don't,  and  at  any  rate  I'm  for  bed.    Good-night." 

"Good-night,"  said  Peter;  "I'm  ofT  too.  But  I  don't  agree 
with  you.  I'm  inclined  to  think  exactly  the  opposite — that 
anything  worth  having  is  worth  making  oneself  a  fool  over. 
What  is  a  fool,  anyvvay?    Good-night." 

He  closed  the  door,  and  Langton  walked  over  to  the 
window  to  open  it.  He  stood  there  a  few  minutes  listening 
to  the  iilencc.  Then  a  cock  crew  somewhere,  and  was 
answered  far  away  by  another.  "Yes,"  said  Langton  to 
himself,  "what  is  a  fool,  anyway?" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  Lessing  family  sat  at  dinner,  and  it  was  to  be  ob- 
served that  some  of  those  incredible  wonders  at  which 
Peter  Graham  had  once  hinted  to  Hilda  had  come  about. 
There  were  only  three  courses,  and  Mr.  Lessing  had  but  one 
glass  of  wine,  for  one  thing;  for  another  he  was  actually 
in  uniform,  and  was  far  more  proud  of  his  corporal's  stripes 
than  he  liad  previously  been  of  his  churchwarden's  staff  of 
office.  Nor  was  he  only  in  the  Volunteers ;  he  was  actually 
in  training  to  some  extent,  and  the  war  had  at  any  rate  done 
him  good.  His  wife  was  not  dressed  for  dinner  either;  she 
had  just  come  in  from  a  war  committee  of  some  sort.  A 
solitary  maid  waited  on  them,  and  they  had  already  given  up 
fires  in  the  dining-room.  Not  that  Mr.  Lessing's  income  had 
appreciably  diminished,  but,  quite  honestly,  he  and  his  were 
out  to  win  the  war.  He  had  come  to  the  conclusion  at  last 
that  business  could  not  go  on  as  usual,  but,  routed  out  of  that 
stronghold,  he  had  made  for  himself  another.  The  war  was 
now  to  him  a  business.    He  viewed  it  in  that  light. 

"We  must  stop  them,"  he  was  saying.  "Mark  my  words, 
»iiey'll  never  get  to  Amiens.  Did  you  see  Haig's  last  order 
to  the  troops?  Not  another  inch  was  to  be  given  at  any 
cost.  We  shan't  give  either.  We've  got  to  win  this  war; 
there's  too  much  at  stake  for  us  to  lose.  Whoever  has  to 
foot  the  bill  for  this  business  is  ruined,  and  it's  not  going  to 
be  Great  Britain.  They  were  saying  in  the  Hall  to-night 
that  the  Army  is  as  cheerful  as  possible:  that's  the  best  sign. 
I  doubt  the  German  Army  is.  Doesn't  Graham  say  anything 
about  it,  Hilda?" 

"No,  father,"  said  Hilda  shortly,  and  bent  over  her  plate. 

"  'Xtraordinary  thing.     He's  a  smart  chap,  and  I  should 

i8i 


i82  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

have  thought  he'd  have  been  full  of  it.  Perhaps  he's  too 
far  back." 

"Ke  was  in  a  big  town  he  doesn't  name  the  other  day,  in 
an  air-raid,  and  a  man  was  killed  in  his  carriage." 

"Good  Lord!  you  don't  say  so?  When  did  you  hear  that? 
I  thought  we  had  command  of  the  air." 

"I  got  a  letter  to-night,  father.  He  just  mentioned  that, 
but  he  doesn't  say  much  else  about  it.  He's  at  Abbeville 
now,  on  the  Somme,  and  he  says  the  Germans  come  over 
fairly  often  by  night." 

"Impossible!"  snorted  the  old  man.  "I  have  it  on  the  best 
possible  authority  that  our  air  service  is  completely  up  to 
date  now,  and  far  better  than  the  German.  He  must  be 
exaggerating.  They  would  never  allow  the  enemy  to  out- 
distance us  in  so  important  a  department.  What  else  does 
he  say?" 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  Hilda,  "or  at  least  nothing  about  the 
war  in  a  way.  It's  full  of — of  his  work,"  She  stopped 
abruptly. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Lessing,  "I  was  against  his  going 
at  first;  but  it's  all  shoulders  to  the  wheel  now,  and  it  was 
plain  he  ought  to  see  a  little  life  out  there.  A  young  man 
who  doesn't  won't  have  much  of  a  look  in  afterwards — that's 
how  /  reasoned  it.  And  he  works  hard,  does  Graham ;  I've 
always  said  that  for  him.  I  expect  he's  of  great  service  to 
them.    Eh,  Hilda?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  girl;  "he  doesn't  say.  But  he's 
been  chosen  for  some  special  work,  lecturing  or  something, 
and  that's  why  he's  at  Abbeville." 

"Ah!  Good!  Special  work,  eh?  He'll  go  far  yet,  that 
fellow.  I  don't  know  that  I'd  have  chosen  him  for  you, 
Hilda,  at  first,  but  this  business  has  shaken  us  all  up,  and  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  Graham  comes  to  the  front  over  it." 
He  stopped  as  the  maid  came  in,  "I  think  I'll  have  my  coflFee 
in  tlie  study,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Lessing ;  "I  have  some 
reading  to  do." 


V     SIMON  CALLED  PETER  183 

When  the  two  women  were  once  more  alone  Mrs.  Lessing 
put  her  cup  down,  and  spoke.  **What  is  it,  dear?"  she 
questioned. 

Hilda  did  not  look  at  her.  The  two,  indeed,  understood 
each  other  very  well.     "I  can't  tell  you  here,  mother,"  she 

said. 

"Come,  then,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lessing,  rising.  "Let's  go 
to  my  room.  Your  father  will  be  busy  for  some  time,  and 
we  shall  not  be  disturbed  there." 

She  led  the  way,  and  lit  a  small  gas  fire.  "I  can't  be  cold 
in  my  bedroom,"  she  said ;  "and  though  I  hate  these  things, 
they  are  better  than  nothing.    Now,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

Hilda  seated  herself  on  a  footstool  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fire,  and  stared  into  it.  The  light  shone  on  her  fair  skin 
and  hair,  and  Mrs.  Lessing  contemplated  her  with  satisfac- 
tion from  several  points  of  view.  For  one  thing,  Hilda  was 
so  sensible.  .  .  . 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  asked  again.  "Your  father  saw  ■  lothing 
— men  don't;  but  you  can't  hide  from  me,  dear,  that  your 
letter  has  troubled  you.    Is  Peter  in  trouble?" 

Hilda  shook  her  head.  Then  she  said:  "Well,  at  least, 
mother,  not  that  sort  of  trouble.  I  told  father  truly;  he's 
been  picked  for  special  service." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  it?"  Mrs.  Lessing  was  a  trifle  im- 
patient. 

"Mother,"  said  Hilda,  "I've  known  that  he  has  not  been 
happy  ever  since  his  arrival  in  France,  but  I've  never  properly 
understood  why.  Peter  is  queer  in  some  ways,  you  know. 
You  remember  that  sermon  of  his?  He  won't  be  content 
with  things;  he's  always  worrying.  And  now  he  writes 
dreadfully.  He  says  .  .  ."  She  hesitated.  Then,  suddenly, 
she  pulled  out  the  letter.  "Listen,  mother,"  she  said,  and 
read  what  Peter  had  written  in  the  club  until  the  end.  "  'I 
am  going  to  eat  and  drink  with  publicans  and  sinners ;  maybe 
I  shall  find  my  Master  still  there.'  " 

If  Langton  could  have  seen  Mrs.  Lessing  he  would  have 


1^4  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

smiled  that  cynical  smile  of  his  with  much  satisfaction.  She 
was  frankly  horrified — rendered,  in  fact,  almost  speechless. 

"Hilda!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  a  thing  to  write  to  you! 
But  what  does  he  mean?  Has  he  forgotten  that  he  is  a 
clergyman?  Why,  it's  positively  blasphemous!  He  is  speak- 
ing of  Christ,  I  suppose.  My  poor  girl,  he  must  be  mad. 
Surely  you  see  that,  dear." 

Hilda  stared  on  into  the  fire,  and  made  no  reply.  Her 
mother  hardly  needed  one.  "Has  he  met  another  woman, 
Hilda?"  she  demanded. 

"I  don't  know ;  he  doesn't  say  so,"  said  Hilda  miserably. 
*'But  anyhow,  I  don't  see  that  that  matters." 

"Not  matter,  girl!  Are  you  mad  too?  He  is  your  fiance, 
isn't  he?    Really,  I  think  I  must  speak  to  your  father." 

Hilda  turned  her  head  slowly,  and  mother  and  daughter 
looked  at  each  other.  Mrs.  Lessing  was  a  woman  of  the 
world,  but  she  was  a  good  mother,  and  she  read  in  her  daugh- 
ter's eyes  what  every  mother  has  to  read  sooner  or  later.  It 
was  as  one  woman  to  another,  and  not  as  mother  to  daughter, 
that  she  continued  lamely:  "Well,  Hilda,  what  do  you  make 
of  it  all  ?    What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

The  girl  looked  away  again,  and  a  silence  fell  between 
them.    Then  she  said,  speaking  in  short,  slow  sentences: 

"I  will  tell  you  what  I  make  of  it,  mother.  Peter's  gone 
beyond  me.  I  think,  now,  that  I  have  always  feared  a  little 
that  he  might.  Of  course,  he's  impetuous  and  headstrong, 
but  it  is  more  than  that.  He  feels  differently  from  me,  from 
all  of  us.  I  can  see  that,  though  I  don't  understand  him  a 
bit.  I  thought"  (her  voice  faltered)  "he  loved  me  more. 
He  knows  how  I  wanted  him  to  get  on  in  the  Church,  and 
how  I  would  have  helped  him.  But  that's  nothing  to  him, 
or  next  to  nothing.  I  think  he  doesn't  love  me  at  all,  mother, 
and  never  really  did." 

Mrs.  Lessing  threw  her  head  back.  "Then  he's  a  fool,  my 
dear,"  she  said  emphatically.  "You're  worth  loving;  you 
know  it.    I  should  think  no  more  about  him,  Hilda." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  185 

Hilda's  hands  tightened  round  her  knees.  *'I  can't  do 
that,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Lessing  was  impatient  again.  "Do  you  mean,  Hilda, 
that  if  he  persists  in  this — this  madness,  if  he  gives  up  the 
Church,  for  example,  you  will  not  break  off  the  engagement? 
Mind  you,  that  is  the  point.  Every  young  man  must  have  a 
bit  of  a  f^ing,  possibly  even  clergymen,  I  suppose,  and  they 
get  over  it.  A  sensible  girl  knows  that.  But  if  he  ruins  his 
prospects — surely,  Hilda,  you  are  not  going  to  be  a  fool?" 

The  word  had  been  spoken  again.  Peter  had  had  some- 
thing to  say  on  it,  and  now  the  gods  gave  Hilda  her  chance. 
She  stretched  her  fine  hands  out  to  the  fire,  and  a  new  note 
came  into  her  voice. 

"A  fool,  mother?  Oh  no,  I  slian't  be  a  fool.  A  fool  would 
follow  him  to  the  end  of  the  world.  A  fool  of  a  woman 
would  give  him  all  he  wants  for  the  sake  of  giving,  and  be 
content  with  nothing  in  return.  I  see  that.  But  Pm  not 
made  for  that  sort  of  foolery.  .  .  .    No,  I  shan't  be  a  fool." 

Mrs.  Lessing  could  not  conceal  her  satisfaction.  "Well,  I 
am  sure  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  it,  and  so  would  your 
father  be.  We  have  not  brought  you  up  carefully  for  noth- 
ing, Hilda.  You  are  a  woman  now,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
trying  to  force  a  woman  against  her  will,  but  I  am  heartily 
glad,  my  dear,  that  you  are  so  sensible.  When  you  are  as 
old  as  I  am  and  have  a  daughter  of  your  own,  you  will  be 
glad  that  you  have  behaved  so  to-night." 

Hilda  got  up,  and  put  her  hands  behind  her  head,  which 
was  a  favourite  posture  of  hers.  She  stood  looking  down 
at  her  mother  with  a  curious  expression  on  her  face.  Mrs. 
Lessing  could  make  nothing  of  it;  she  merely  thought  Hilda 
"queer";  she  had  travelled  farther  than  she  knew  from 
youth. 

"Shall  I,  mother?"  said  Hilda.  "Yes,  I  expect  I  shall.  I 
have  been  carefully  brought  up,  as  you  say,  so  carefully  that 
even  now  I  can  only  just  see  what  a  fool  might  do,  and  I 
know  quite  well  that  I  can't  do  it.    After  a  while  I  shall  no 


i86  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

more  see  it  than  you  do.  I  shall  even  probably  forget  that 
I  ever  did.  So  that  is  all.  And  because  I  love  him,  really, 
I  don't  think  I  can  even  say  'poor  Peter!'  That's  curious, 
isn't  it,  mother?  .  .  .  Well,  I  think  I'll  go  to  my  room  for 
a  little.    I  won't  come  in  again.    Good-night." 

She  bent  and  kissed  Mrs.  Lessing.  Her  mother  held  her 
arms  a  moment  more.  "Then,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 
she  demanded. 

Hilda  freed  herself.  "Write  and  try  to  persuade  him  not 
to  be  a  fool  either,  I  think.  Not  that  it's  any  good.  And 
then — wait  and  see."  She  walked  to  the  door.  "Of  course, 
this  is  just  between  us  two,  isn't  it,  dear?"  she  said,  playing 
with  the  handle. 

"Of  course,"  said  her  mother.  "But  do  be  sensible,  dear, 
and  don't  wait  too  long.  It  is  much  l>etter  not  to  play  with 
these  things — much  better.  And  do  tell  me  how  things  go, 
darling,  won't  you?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Hilda  slowly.  "Oh  yes,  I'll  tell  you.  .  .  . 
Good-night." 

She  passed  out  and  closed  the  door  gently.  "I  wonder  why 
1  can't  cry  to-night?"  she  asked  herself  as  she  went  to  her 
?oom,  and  quite  honestly  she  did  not  know. 

Across  the  water  Peter's  affairs  were  speeding  up.  If 
Hilda  could  have  seen  him  that  night  she  would  probably 
riave  wept  without  dilliculty,  but  for  a  much  more  superficial 
reason  than  the  reason  why  she  could  not  weep  in  London. 
And  it  came  about  in  this  way. 

On  the  morning  after  the  dinner  Peter  was  moody,  and 
declared  he  would  not  go  down  to  the  office,  but  would  take 
a  novel  out  to  the  canal.  He  was  in  half  a  mind  to  go  up  and 
call  at  tlie  hospital,  but  something  held  him  back.  Reflection 
showed  him  how  near  he  had  been  to  the  fatal  kiss  the  night 
before,  and  he  did  not  wish,  or,  with  the  morning,  he  thought 
he  did  not  wish,  to  see  Julie  so  soon  again.  So  he  got  his 
novel  and  went  out  to  the  canal,  finding  a  place  where  last 
year's  leaves  still  lay  thick,  and  one  could  lie  at  ease  and 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  187 

read.  We  do  these  things  all  our  days,  and  never  learn  the 
lesson. 

Halfway  through  the  morning  he  looked  up  to  see  Langton 
striding  along  towards  him.  He  was  walking  quickly,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  brings  news,  and  he  delivered  his  message 
as  soon  as  they  were  within  earshot  of  each  other.  "Good 
news,  Graham,"  he  called  out.  "This  tomfoolery  is  over. 
They've  heard  from  H.Q.  that  the  whole  stunt  is  postponed, 
and  we've  all  to  go  back  to  our  bases.  Isn't  it  like  'em?" 
he  demanded,  as  he  came  up.  "Old  Jackson  in  the  office  is 
swearing  like  blazes.  He's  had  all  his  maps  made  and  plans 
drawn  up,  etcetera  and  etcetera,  and  now  they're  so  much 
waste-paper.  Jolly  fortunate,  any  road."  He  sat  down  and 
got  out  a  pipe. 

Peter  shut  his  book.  "I'm  glad,"  he  said.  "I'm  sick  of 
foolin'  round  here.  Not  but  what  it  isn't  a  decent  enough 
place,  but  I  prefer  the  other.  There's  more  doing.  When 
do  we  go?" 

"To-morrow.  They're  getting  our  movement  orders,  yours 
to  Havre,  mine  to  Rouen.  I  put  in  a  spoke  for  you,  to  get 
one  via  Rouen,  but  I  don't  know  if  you  will.  It's  a  vile 
journey  otherwise." 

"By  Jove!"  cried  Peter.  "I've  an  idea!  Miss  Gamelyn's 
troop  of  motor-buses  goes  back  to  Havre  to-morrow  empty. 
Why  shouldn't  I  travel  on  them?    Think  I  could  work  it?" 

Langton  puffed  solemnly.  "Sure,  I  should  think,"  he  said, 
"being  a  padre,  anyway." 

"What  had  I  best  do?" 

"Oh,  I  should  go  and  see  Jackson  and  get  him  to  'phone 
the  hospital  for  you — that  is,  if  you  really  want  to  go  that 
way." 

"It's  far  better  than  that  vile  train,"  said  Peter.  "Besides, 
one  can  see  the  country,  which  I  love.  And  I've  never  been 
in  Dieppe,  and  they're  to  go  through  there  and  pick  up  some 
casualties." 

"Just  so,"  said  Langton,  still  smoking. 


i88  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "reckon  I'll  go  and  see  about  it. 
Jackson's  a  decent  old  stick,  but  I'd  best  do  it  before  he 
tackles  the  R.T.O.    Coming?" 

"No,"  said  Langton.  "Leave  that  novel,  and  come  back 
for  me.    You  won't  be  long." 

"Right-o,"  said  Peter,  and  set  off. 

It  was  easily  done.  Jackson  had  no  objections,  and  rang 
up  the  hospital  while  Peter  waited.  Oh  yes,  certainly  they 
could  do  it.  What  was  the  name?  Captain  Graham,  C.F. — 
certainly.  He  must  be  at  the  hospital  early — eight-thirty  the 
next  morning.    That  all  right?    Thank  you. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Peter.  "Motoring's  a  long  sight  better 
than  the  train  these  days,  and  I'll  get  in  quicker,  too,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  or  at  any  rate  just  as  quickly."  He  turned 
to  go,  but  a  thought  struck  l>im.  "Have  you  an  orderly  to 
spare?"  he  asked. 

"Any  quantity,"  said  the  other  bitterly.  "They've  been 
detailed  for  weeks,  and  done  nothing.  You  can  have  one 
with  pleasure.    It'll  give  the  perisher  something  to  do." 

"Thanks,"  said  Peter ;  "I  want  to  send  a  note,  that's  all. 
May  I  write  it  here?" 

He  was  given  pen  and  paper,  and  scribbled  a  little  note  to 
Julie.  He  did  not  know  who  else  might  be  on  the  lorry,  or 
if  she  would  want  to  appear  to  know  him.  The  orderly  was 
called  and  despatched  and  he  left  the  place  for  the  last  time. 

Langton  and  he  walked  out  to  St.  Riquier  in  the  afternoon, 
had  tea  there,  and  got  back  to  dinner.  A  note  was  waiting 
for  Peter,  a  characteristic  one. 

"Dearest  Solomon  (it  ran), 

"You  are  really  waking  up!  There  will  be  three  of  us 
nurses  in  one  lorry,  and  they're  sure  to  start  you  off  in 
another.  We  lunch  at  Eu,  and  I'll  be  delighted  to  see  you. 
Then  you  can  go  on  in  our  car.  Dieppe's  on  the  knees  of 
the  gods,  as  you  say,  but  probably  we  can  pull  off  something. 

"Julie." 

He  smiled  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Langton  said  nothing 
till  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  came  in.    Then  he  lit  a  cigarette 


.    SIMON  CALLED  PETER  189 

and  held  the  match  out  to  Peter.  "Wonder  if  we  shall  meet 
again?"  he  said. 

"Oh,  I  expect  so,"  said  Peter.  "Write,  anyway,  won't 
you  ?    I'll  likely  get  a  chance  to  come  to  Rouen." 

"And  I  likely  won't  be  there.  I'm  putting  in  again  for 
another  job.  They're  short  of  men  now,  and  want  equip- 
ment officers  for  the  R.A.F.  It's  a  stunt  for  which  engineer- 
ing's useful,  and  I  may  get  in.  I  don't  suppose  I'll  see  much 
of  the  fun,  but  it's  better  than  bossing  up  a  labour  company, 
any  road." 

"Sportsman,"  said  Peter.  "I  envy  you.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me?  I've  half  a  mind  to  put  in  too.  Do  you  think  I'd 
have  a  chance?" 

"No,"  said  Langton  brutally.  "Besides,  it's  not  your  hne. 
You  know  what  yours  is ;  stick  to  it." 

"And  you  know  that  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  can,"  said 
Peter. 

"Rot!"  said  the  other.  "You  can  if  you  like.  You  won't 
gain  by  running  away.  Only  I  give  you  this  bit  of  advice, 
old  son :  go  slow.  You're  so  damned  hot-headed !  You  can't 
remake  the  world  to  order  in  five  minutes ;  and  if  you  could, 
I  bet  it  wouldn't  be  a  much  better  old  world.  We've  worried 
along  for  some  time  moderately  well.  Don't  be  too  ready  to 
turn  down  the  things  that  have  worked  with  some  success, 
at  any  rate,  for  the  things  that  have  never  been  tried." 

Peter  smoked  in  silence.  Then  he  said :  "Langton  you're 
a  bit  different  from  what  you  were.  In  a  way,  it's  you  who 
have  set  me  out  on  this  racket,  and  it's  you  who  encouraged 
me  to  try  and  get  down  to  rock -bottom.  You've  always  been 
a  cautious  old  rotter,  but  you're  more  than  cautious  now. 
Why?" 

Langton  leaned  over  and  touched  the  otlier's  tunic  pocket 
in  which  lay  Julie's  note.  Then  he  leaned  back  and  went 
on  with  his  cigarette. 

Peter  flushed.  "It's  too  late,"  he  said  judicially,  flicking 
ofT  his  ash. 

"So?    Well,  I'm  sorry,  frankly — sorry  for  her  and  sorry 


190  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

for  you.  But  if  it  is,  I'll  remember  my  own  wisdom :  it's  no 
use  meddling  with  such  things.  For  all  that,  you're  a  fool, 
Peter,  as  I  told  you  last  night." 

"Just  so.    And  I  asked  what  was  a  fool." 

"And  I  didn't  answer.  I  reckon  fools  can  be  of  many 
sorts.  Your  sort  of  fool  chucks  the  world  over  for  the  quest 
of  an  ideal." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Peter  quietly. 

"You  needn't.  That  fool  is  a  real  fool,  and  bigger  than 
most.  Ideals  are  ideals,  and  one  can't  realise  them.  It's 
waste  of  time  to  try." 

"Is  it?"  said  Peter.  "Well,  at  any  rate,  I  don't  know 
that  I'm  out  after  them  much.  I  don't  see  any.  All  I  know 
is  that  I've  looked  in  the  likely  places,  and  now  I'll  look  in 
the  unlikely." 

Langton  ground  his  cigarette-end  in  his  coffee-cup.  "You 
will,"  he  said,  "whatever  I  say.  .  .  .  Have  another  drink? 
After  all,  there's  no  need  to  'turn  down  the  empty  glass' 
yet." 

They  did  not  see  each  other  in  the  morning,  and  Peter 
made  his  way  early  to  the  hospital  as  arranged.  The  P.M.O. 
met  him,  and  he  was  put  in  nominal  charge  of  the  three 
Red-Cross  ambulance-cars.  While  he  was  talking  to  the 
doctor  the  three  nurses  came  out  and  got  in,  Julie  not  looking 
in  his  direction ;  then  he  climbed  up  next  the  driver  of  the 
first  car.    "Cheerio,"  said  the  P.M.O.,  and  they  were  off. 

It  was  a  dull  day,  and  mists  hung  over  the  water-meadows 
by  the  Somme.  For  all  that  Peter  enjoyed  himself  im- 
mensely. They  ran  sv/iftly  through  the  little  villages,  under 
the  sweeping  trees  all  new-budded  into  green,  and  soon  had 
vistas  of  the  distant  sea.  The  driver  of  Peter's  car  was  an 
observant  fellow,  and  he  knew  something  of  gardening.  It 
was  he  who  pointed  out  that  the  fruit-trees  had  been  in- 
differently pruned  or  not  pruned  at  all,  and  that  there  were 
fields  no  longer  under  the  plough  that  had  been  plainly  so 
not  long  before.  In  a  word,  the  country  bore  its  war  scars, 
although  it  needed  a  clever  eye  to  see  them. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  191 

But  Peter  had  little  thought  for  this.  Now  and  again,  at 
a  corner,  he  would  glance  back,  his  mind  on  Julie  in  the 
following  car,  while  every  church  tower  gave  him  pause  for 
thought.  He  tried  to  draw  the  man  beside  him  on  religion, 
but  without  any  success,  though  he  talked  freely  enough  of 
other  things.  He  was  for  the  Colonies  after  the  war,  he  said. 
He'd  knocked  about  a  good  deal  in  France,  and  the  taste  for 
travel  had  come  to  him.  Canada  appeared  a  land  of  promise ; 
one  could  get  a  farm  easily,  and  his  motor  knowledge  would 
be  useful  on  a  farm  these  days.  Yes,  he  had  a  pal  out  there, 
a  Canadian  who  had  done  his  bit  and  been  invalided  out  of 
it.  They  corresponded,  and  he  expected  to  get  in  with  him, 
the  one's  local  knowledge  eking  out  the  other's  technical. 
No,  he  wasn't  for  marrying  yet  awhile ;  he'd  waii  I'll  he'd 
got  a  place  for  the  wife  and  kiddies.  Then  he  would.  The 
thought  made  him  expand  a  bit,  and  Peter  smiled  to  himself 
as  he  thought  of  his  conversation  with  Langton  over  the 
family  group.  It  struck  him  to  test  the  man,  and  as  they 
passed  a  wayside  Calvary,  rudely  painted,  he  drew  his  atten- 
tion to  it.    "What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked. 

The  man  glanced  at  it,  and  then  away.  "It's  all  right  for 
them  as  like  it,"  he  said.  "Religion's  best  in  a  church,  it 
seems  to  me.  I've  seen  chaps  mock  at  them  crucifixes,  sir, 
same  as  they  wouldn't  if  they'd  only  been  in  church." 

"Yes,"  said  Peter;  "but  I  suppose  some  men  have  been 
helped  by  them  who  never  would  have  been  if  they  had  only 
been  in  church.    But  don't  you  think  they're  rather  gaudy?" 

"Gaudy,  sir?  Meanin'  'ighly  painted?  No,  not  as  I  knows 
on.  They're  more  like  what  happened,  I  reckon,  than  them 
brass  crosses  we  have  in  our  churches." 

They  ran  into  Eu  for  lunch,  and  drew  up  in  the  market- 
square.  Peter  went  round  to  the  girls'  car,  greeted  Julie, 
and  was  introduced.  He  led  them  to  an  old  inn  in  the  square, 
and  they  sat  down  to  luncheon  in  very  good  humour.  The 
other  girls  were  ordinary  enough,  and  Julie  rather  subdued 
for  her.  Afterwards  they  spent  an  hour  in  the  church  and 
a  picture-postcard  shop,  and  it  was  there  that  Julie  whis- 


192  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

pered :  "Go  on  in  your  own  car.  At  Dieppe,  go  to  the  Hotel 
Trois  Poissons  and  wait  for  me.  I  found  out  yesterday  that 
a  woman  I  know  is  a  doctor  in  Dicp])e,  and  she  lives  there, 
ril  get  leave  easily  to  call.  Thai  1  can  see  you.  If  we 
travel  together  these  girls  '11  talk;  they're  just  the  sort." 

Peter  nodded  understanding,  and  they  drifted  apart.  He 
went  out  to  see  if  the  cars  were  ready  and  returned  to  call 
the  nurses,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  were  olT  again. 

The  road  now  ran  through  forests  nearly  all  the  way, 
«xcept  where  villages  had  cleared  a  space  around  them,  aa 
was  plain  to  see.  They  crossed  little  streams,  and  finally 
came  downhill  through  the  forest  into  the  river  valley  that 
leads  to  Dieppe.  It  was  still  early,  and  Peter  stopped  the 
cars  to  suggest  that  they  might  have  a  look  at  the  castle  of 
Ar(iucs-le-Bataille.  The  grand  old  pile  kept  them  nearly 
an  hour,  and  they  wandered  ahout  the  ruins  to  their  hearts' 
content.  Julie  would  climh  a  huttress  of  the  ancient  keep 
when  their  guide  had  gone  on  with  the  others,  and  Peter 
went  up  after  her.  She  was  as  lissom  as  a  hoy  and  seemingly 
as  strong,  swinging  up  hy  roots  of  ivy  and  the  branches  of  a 
near  tree,  in  no  wise  impeded  by  her  short  skirts.  From  the 
top  one  had,  indeed,  a  glorious  view.  The  weather  had 
cleared  somewhat,  and  one  could  see  every  bit  of  the  old 
castle  below,  the  village  at  its  feet,  and  the  forest  across  the 
little  stream  out  of  which  the  Duke  of  Mayenne's  infantry 
had  debouched  that  day  of  battle  from  which  the  village 
took  its  name. 

"They  had  some  of  the  first  guns  in  the  castle,  which  was 
held  for  Henry  of  Navarre,"  explained  Peter,  "and  they  did 
great  execution.  I  suppose  they  fired  one  stone  shot  in  about 
every  five  minutes,  and  killed  a  man  about  every  half -hour. 
The  enemy  were  more  frightened  than  hurt,  I  should  think. 
Anyway,  Henry  won." 

"Wasn't  he  the  King  who  thought  Paris  worth  more  than 
a  Mass?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  watching  her  brown  eyes  as  she  stared 
out  over  the  plain. 


.   SIMON  CALLED  PETER  193 

"I  wonder  what  he  thinks  now,"  she  said. 

He  laughed.    "You're  Hkely  to  wonder,"  he  said. 

"Funny  old  days,"  said  Julie.  "I  suppose  there  were 
girls  in  this  castle  watcliing  the  fight.  I  expect  they  cared 
more  for  the  one  man  each  half -hour  the  cannon  hit  than 
for  either  Paris  or  the  Mass.  That's  the  way  of  women, 
Peter,  and  a  damned  silly  way  it  is !  Come  on,  let's  go.  Fll 
get  down  first,  if  you  please." 

On  the  short  road  remaining  Peter  asked  his  chauffeur  if 
he  knew  the  Trois  Poissons,  and,  finding  that  he  did,  had 
the  direction  pointed  out.  They  ran  through  the  town  to 
the  hospital,  and  Peter  handed  his  cars  over.  "Pll  sleep  in 
town,"  he  said.  "What  time  ought  we  to  start  in  the  morn- 
ing?" He  was  told,  and  walked  away.  Julie  had  disap- 
peared. 

He  found  the  Trois  Poissons  without  difTiculty,  and  made 
his  way  to  the  sitting-room,  a  queer  room  opening  from  the 
pavement  direct  on  the  one  side,  and  from  the  hall  of  the 
hotel  on  the  other.  It  had  a  table  down  the  middle,  a  weird 
selection  of  chairs,  and  a  piano.  A  small  woman  was  sitting 
in  a  chair  reading  tlie  Tatler  and  smoking.  An  empty  glass 
stood  beside  her. 

She  looked  up  as  he  came  in,  and  he  noticed  R.A.M.C. 
badges.     "Good-evening,"  he  said  cheerily. 

"Good-evening,  padre,"  she  replied,  plainly  willing  to  talk. 
"Where  have  you  sprung  from?" 

"Abbeville  via  Eu  in  a  convoy  of  Red  Cross  cars,"  he 
said,  "and  I  feel  like  a  sundowner.  Won't  you  have  another 
with  me?" 

"Sure  thing,"  she  said,  and  he  ordered  a  couple  from  the 
French  maid  who  came  in  answer  to  his  ring.  "Do  you  live 
here?"  he  asked. 

"For  my  sins  I  do,"  she  said.  "I  doctor  Waac's,  and  I 
don't  think  much  of  it.  A  finer,  heartier  lot  of  women  I 
never  saw.  Epsom  salts  is  all  they  want.  A  child  could 
do  it." 


194  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Peter  laughed.  "Well,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  grum- 
ble," he  said. 

"Don't  you?  Where's  the  practice?  This  business  out 
here  is  the  best  chance  for  doctors  in  a  lifetime,  and  I  have 
to  strip  strapping  girls  hopelessly  and  endlessly." 

"You  do,  do  you  ?"  said  a  voice  in  the  doorway,  and  there 
stood  Julie.  "Well,  at  any  rate  you  oughtn't  to  talk  about 
it  like  that  to  my  gentleman  friends,  especially  padres.  How 
do  you  do.  my  dear  ?" 

"Juhe,  by  all  that's  holy!    Where  have  you  sprung  from?" 

She  glanced  from  one  to  the  other.  "From  Abbeville  via 
Eu  in  a  convoy  of  Red  Cross  cars,  I  dare  bet,"  she  said. 

"Julie,  you're  beyond  me.  If  you  weren't  so  strong  I'd 
smack  you,  but  as  it  is,  give  me  another  kiss.  And  introduce 
us.     There  may  as  well  be  propriety  somewhere." 

They  sorted  themselves  out  and  sat  down.  "What  do  you 
think  of  my  rig?"  demanded  Dr.  Melville  (as  Julie  had 
introduced  her). 

"Toppin',"  said  Julie  critically.  "But  what  in  the  world  is 
it?  Chiefly  Waac,  with  three  pukka  stars  and  an  R.A.M.C. 
badge.    Teanie,  how  dare  you  do  it?" 

"I  dare  do  all  that  doth  become  a  woman,"  she  answered 
complacently,  "And  it  doth,  doth  it  not?  Skirt's  a  trifle 
short,  perhaps,"  she  added,  sticking  out  a  leg  and  examining 
the  eff^ect  critically,  "but  upper's  eminently  satisfactory." 

Julie  leaned  over  and  prodded  her.  "No  corsets?"  she 
inquired  innocently. 

"Julie,  you're  positively  indecent.  You  must  have  tamed 
your  padre  completely.  You're  not  married  by  any  chance?" 
she  added  suddenly. 

Julie  screamed  with  laughter.  "Oh,  Teanie,  you'll  be  the 
death  of  me,"  she  said  at  last.  "Solomon,  are  we  married? 
I  don't  think  so,  Teanie.  There's  never  no  telling  these  days, 
but  I  can't  recollect  it." 

"Well,  it  strikes  me  you  ought  to  be  if  you're  jogging 
round  the  country  together,"  said  the  other,  her  eyes 
twinkling.    "But  if  you're  not,  take  warning,  padre.    A  girl 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  19S 

that  talks  about  corsets  in  public  isn't  respectable,  especially 
as  she  doesn't  wear  them  herself,  except  in  the  evening,  for 
the  sake  of  other  things.  Or  she  used  not  to.  But  perhaps 
you  know?" 

Peter  tried  to  look  comfortable,  but  he  was  completely  out 
of  his  depth.  He  finished  his  drink  with  a  happy  inspiration, 
and  ordered  another.  That  down,  he  began  to  feel  mo^e 
capable  of  entering  into  the  spirit  of  these  two.  They  were 
the  sort  he  wanted  to  know,  both  of  them,  women  about  as 
different  from  those  he  had  met  as  they  could  possibly  be. 

Another  man  dropped  in  after  a  while,  so  the  talk  became 
general.  The  atmosphere  was  very  free  and  easy,  bantering, 
careless,  jolly,  and  Peter  expanded  in  it.  Julie  led  them  all. 
She  was  never  at  a  loss,  and  apparently  had  no  care  in  the 
world. 

The  two  girls  and  Peter  went  together  to  dinner  and  sat 
at  the  same  table.  They  talked  a  good  deal  together,  and 
Peter  gathered  they  had  come  to  know  each  other  at  a  hos- 
pital in  England.     They  were  full  of  reminiscences. 

"Do  you  remember  ducking  Pockett?"  Teanie  asked  Julie. 

"Lor',  I  should  think  I  do!  Tell  Peter.  He  won't  be 
horrified  unless  you  go  into  details.  If  I  cough,  Solomon, 
you're  to  change  the  subject.    Carry  on,  Teanie." 

"Well,  Pockett  was  a  nurse  of  about  the  last  limit.  She 
was  fearfully  snobby,  which  nobody  of  that  name  ought  to 
be,  and  she  ruled  her  pros,  with  a  rod  of  iron.  I  expect  that 
was  good  for  them,  and  I  say  nothing  as  to  that,  but  she  was 
a  beast  to  the  boys.  We  had  some  poor  chaps  in  who  were 
damnably  knocked  about,  and  one  could  do  a  lot  for  them  in 
roundabout  ways.  Regulations  are  made  to  be  broken  in 
some  cases,  I  think.  But  she  was  a  holy  terror.  Sooner 
than  call  her,  the  boys  would  endure  anything,  but  some  of 
us  knew,  and  once  she  caught  Julie  here  .  .  ." 

"It  wasn't — it  was  you,  Teanie." 

"Oh,  well,  one  of  us,  anyway,  in  her  ward  when  she  was 
on  night  duty,  sitting  with  a  poor  chap  who  pegged  out  a 
few  days  after.    It  soothed  him  to  sit  and  hold  her  hand. 


196  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Well,  anyway,  she  was  furious  and  reported  it.  There  was 
a  bit  of  a  row — had  to  be,  I  suppose,  as  it  was  against 
regulations — but  thank  God  the  P.M.O.  knew  his  job,  so 
there  was  only  a  strafe  with  the  tongue  in  the  cheek.  How- 
ever, we  swore  revenge,  and  we  had  it — eh,  Julie?" 

"We  did.    Go  on.    It  was  you  who  thought  of  it." 

"Well,  we  filled  a  bath  with  tepid  water  and  then  went  to 
her  room  one  night.  She  was  asleep,  and  never  heard  us. 
We  had  a  towel  round  her  head  in  two  twinks,  and  carried 
her  by  the  legs  and  arms  to  the  bathroom.  Julie  had  her 
legs,  and  held  'em  well  up,  so  that  down  went  her  head  under 
water.  She  couldn't  yell  then.  When  we  let  her  up,  I 
douched  her  with  cold  water,  and  then  we  bolted.  We  saw 
to  it  that  there  wasn't  a  towel  in  the  bathroom,  and  we 
locked  her  bedroom  door.  Oh,  lor',  poor  soul,  but  it  was 
funny !  She  met  an  orderly  in  the  corridor,  and  he  nearly 
had  a  fit,  and  I  don't  wonder,  for  her  wet  nightie  clung  to  her 
figure  like  a  skin.  She  had  to  try  half  a  dozen  rooms  before 
she  got  anyone  to  help  her,  and  then,  when  she  got  back, 
we'd  ragged  her  room  to  blazes.  She  never  said  a  word,  and 
left  soon  after.     Ever  hear  of  her  again,  Julie?" 

"No,"  said  she,  looking  more  innocent  than  ever,  Peter 
thought;  "but  I  expect  she's  made  good  somewhere.  She 
must  have  had  something  in  her  or  she'd  have  kicked  up 
a  row." 

Miss  Melville  was  laughing  silently.  "You  innocent  babe 
unborn,"  she  said ;  "never  shall  I  forget  how  you  held  .  .  ." 

"Come  on,  Captain  Graham,"  said  Julie,  getting  up; 
"you've  got  to  see  me  home,  and  I  want  a  nice  walk  by  the 
sea-front." 

They  went  out  together,  and  stood  at  the  hotel  door  in 
the  little  street.  There  was  a  bit  of  a  moon,  with  clouds 
scurrying  by,  and  when  it  shone  the  road  was  damp  and 
glistening  in  the  moonlight.  "What  a  heavenly  night !"  said 
Julie.    "Come  on  with  us  along  the  sea-front,  Teanie — do !" 

Miss  Melville  smiled  up  at  them.  "I  reckon  you'd  prefer 
to  be  alone."  she  said. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  197 

Peter  glanced  at  Julie,  and  then  protested.  "No,"  he 
said ;  "do  come  on,"  and  Julie  rewarded  him  with  a  smile. 

So  they  set  out  together.  On  the  front  the  wind  was  higher, 
lashing  the  waves,  and  the  moonlight  shone  fitfully  on  the 
distant  cliffs,  the  harbour  mouth,  and  the  sea.  The  two  girls 
clung  together,  and  as  Peter  walked  by  Julie  she  took  his 
arm.  Conversation  was  difficult  as  they  battled  their  way 
along  the  promenade.  There  was  hardly  a  soul  about,  and 
Peter  felt  the  night  to  fit  his  mood. 

They  went  up  once  and  down  again,  and  at  the  Casino 
grounds  Teanie  stopped  them.  "  'Nough,"  she  said ;  "I'm 
for  home  and  bed.    You  two  dears  can  finish  up  without  m^." 

"Oh,  we  must  see  you  home,"  said  Peter. 

The  doctor  laughed.  "Think  I  shall  get  stolen?"  she  de- 
manded. "Someone  would  have  to  get  up  pretty  early  for 
that.  No,  padre,  I'm  past  the  need  of  being  escorted,  thanks. 
Good-night.  Be  good,  Julie.  We'll  meet  agam  sometime, 
I  hope.    If  not,  keep  smiling.    Cheerio." 

She  waved  her  hand  and  was  gone  in  the  night.  "If 
there  was  ever  a  plucky,  unselfish,  rattling  good  woman, 
there  she  goes,"  said  Julie.  "I've  known  her  sit  up  night 
after  night  with  wounded  men  when  she  was  working  like 
a  horse  all  day.  I've  known  her  to  help  a  drunken  Tommy 
into  a  cab  and  get  him  home,  and  quiet  his  wife  into  the 
bargain.  I  saw  her  once  walk  ofif  out  of  the  Monico  with  a 
boy  of  a  subaltern,  who  didn't  know  what  he  was  doing, 
and  take  him  to  her  own  flat,  and  put  him  to  bed,  and  get 
him  on  to  the  leave-train  in  time  in  the  morning.  She'd 
give  away  her  last  penny,  and  you  wouldn't  know  she'd  done 
it.  And  yet  she's  not  the  sort  of  woman  you'd  choose  to 
run  a  mother's  meeting,  would  you,  Solomon  ?" 

"Sure  thing  I  wouldn't,"  said  Peter,  "not  in  my  old  parish, 
but  I'm  not  so  sure  I  wouldn't  in  my  new  one." 

"What's  your  new  one  ?"  asked  Julie  curiously. 

"Oh,  it  hasn't  a  name,"  said  Peter,  "but  it's  pretty  big. 
Something  after  the  style  of  John  Wesley's  parish,  I  reckon. 
And  I'm  gradually  getting  it  sized  up." 


198  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Where  do  I  come  in,  Solomon  ?"  demanded  Julie. 

They  were  passing  by  the  big  Calvary  at  the  harbour  gates, 
and  there  was  a  light  there.  He  stopped  and  turned  so  that 
the  light  fell  on  her.  She  looked  up  at  him,  and  so  they 
stood  a  minute.  He  could  hear  the  lash  of  the  waves,  and 
the  wind  drumming  in  the  rigging  of  the  flagstaff  near  them. 
Then,  deliberately,  he  bent  down,  and  kissed  her  on  the  lips. 
"I  don't  know,  Julie,"  he  said,  "but  I  believe  you  have  the 
biggest  part,  somehow." 


A 


CHAPTER  III 

LL  that  it  is  necessary  to  know  of  Hilda's  return  letter 
to  Peter  ran  as  follows : 


"My  Dear  Boy, 

"Your  letter  from  Abbeville  reached  me  the  day  before 
yesterday,  and  I  have  thought  about  nothing  else  since.  It 
is  plain  to  me  that  it  is  no  use  arguing  with  you  and  no  good 
reproaching  you,  for  once  you  get  an  idea  into  your  head 
nothing  but  bitter  experience  will  drive  it  out.  But,  Peter, 
you  must  see  that  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  you  are  asking 
me  to  choose  between  you  and  your  strange  ideas  and  all 
that  is  familiar  and  dear  in  my  life.  You  can't  honestly 
expect  me  to  believe  that  my  Church  and  my  parents  and  my 
teachers  are  all  wrong,  and  that,  to  put  it  mildly,  the  very 
strange  people  you  appear  to  be  meeting  in  France  are  all 
right.  My  dear  Peter,  do  try  and  look  at  it  sensibly.  The 
story  you  told  me  of  the  death  of  Lieutenant  Jenks  was 
terrible — terrible ;  it  brings  the  war  home  in  all  its  ghastly 
reality ;  but  really,  you  know,  it  was  his  fault  and  not  yours, 
and  still  less  the  fault  of  the  Church  of  England,  that  he  did 
not  want  you  when  he  came  to  die.  If  a  man  lives  without 
Gk)d,  he  can  hardly  expect  to  find  Him  at  the  point  of  sudden 
death.  What  you  say  about  Christ,  too,  utterly  bewilders 
me.  Surely  our  Church's  teachings  in  the  Catechism  and  the 
Prayer-Book  is  Christian  teaching,  isn't  it?  Nothing  is 
perfect  on  earth,  and  the  Church  is  human,  but  our  Church 
is  certainly  the  best  I  know  of.  It  is  liberal,  active,  moderate, 
and — I  don't  like  the  word,  but  after  all  it  is  a  good  one — 
respectable.  I  don't  know  much  about  these  things,  but 
surely  you  of  all  people  don't  want  to  go  shouting  in  the 
street  like  a  Salvation  Army  Captain.    I  can't  see  that  that  is 

199 


200  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

more  'in  touch  with  reality.'  Peter,  what  do  you  mean? 
Are  not  St.  John's,  and  the  Canon,  and  my  people,  and 
myself,  real?  Surely,  Peter,  our  love  is  real,  isn't  it?  Oh, 
how  can  you  doubt  that  ? 

"Darling  boy,  don't  you  think  you  are  over-strained  and 
over- worried  ?  You  are  in  a  strange  country,  among  strange 
people,  at  a  very  peculiar  time.  War  always  upsets  every- 
thing and  makes  things  abnormal.  London,  even,  isn't 
normal,  but,  as  the  Canon  said  the  other  day,  a  great  many 
of  the  things  people  do  just  now  are  due  to  reaction  against 
strain  and  anxiety.  Can't  you  see  this?  Isn't  there  any 
clergyman  you  can  go  and  talk  to?  Your  Presbyterian  and 
other  new  friends  and  your  visits  to  Roman  Catholit 
churches  can't  be  any  real  help. 

"Peter,  dear,  for  my  sake,  do,  do  try  to  see  things  like 
this.  I  hate  that  bit  in  your  letter  about  publicans  and 
sinners.  How  can  a  clergyman  expect  them  to  help  himf 
Surely  you  ought  to  avoid  such  people,  not  seek  their  com- 
pany. It  is  so  like  you  to  get  hold  of  a  text  or  two  and  run 
it  to  death.  It's  not  that  I  don't  trust  you,  but  you  are  so 
easily  influenced,  and  you  may  equally  easily  go  artof  do 
something  that  will  separate  us  and  ruin  your  life.  Peter, 
I  hate  to  write  like  this,  but  I  can't  help  it.  .  .  ." 

Peter  let  the  sheets  fall  from  his  hands  and  stared  out  of 
the  little  window.  The  gulls  were  screaming  and  fighting 
over  some  refuse  in  the  harbour,  and  he  watched  the  beat  of 
their  wings,  fascinated.  If  only  he,  too,  could  catch  the 
wind  and  be  up  and  away  like  that ! 

He  jumped  up  and  paced  up  and  down  the  floor  restlessly, 
and  he  told  himself  that  Hilda  was  right  and  he  was  a  cad 
and  worse.  Julie's  kiss  on  his  lips  burned  there  yet.  That 
at  any  rate  was  wrong;  by  any  standards  he  had  no  right  to 
behave  so.  How  could  he  kiss  her  when  he  was  pledged  to 
Hilda — Hilda  to  whom  everyone  had  looked  up,  the  capable, 
lady-like,  irreproachable   Hilda,  the  Hilda  to   whom   Park 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  201 

Lane  and  St.  John's  were  such  admirable  setting.  And  who 
was  he,  after  all,  to  set  aside  all  that  for  which  both  those 
things  stood? 

And  yet.  .  .  .  He  sat  down  by  the  little  table  and 
groaned. 

"What  the  dickens  is  the  matter  with  you,  padre?" 

Peter  started  and  looked  round.  In  the  doorway  stood 
Pennell,  regarding  him  with  amusement.  "Here  am  I  trying 
to  read,  and  you  pacing  up  and  down  like  a  wild  beast. 
What  the  devil's  up  ?" 

"The  devil  himself,  that's  what's  up,"  said  Peter  savagely. 
"Look  here.  Pen,  come  on  down  town  and  let's  have  a  spree. 
I  hate  this  place  and  this  infernal  camp.  It  gets  on  my 
nerves.  I  must  have  a  change.    Will  you  come  ?   It's  my  do." 

"I'm  with  you,  old  thing.  I  know  what  you  feel  like ;  I 
get  like  that  myself  sometimes.  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  that 
you're  so  human.  We'll  go  down  town  and  razzle-dazzle 
for  once.  I'm  ofif  duty  till  to-night.  I  ought  to  sleep,  I 
suppose,  but  I  can't,  so  come  away  with  you.  I  won't  be 
a  second." 

He  disappeared.  Peter  stood  for  a  moment,  then  slipped 
his  tunic  off  and  put  on  another  less  distinctive  of  his  office. 
He  crossed  to  the  desk,  unlocked  it,  and  reached  for  a  roll  of 
notes,  shoving  them  into  his  pocket.  Then  he  put  on  his 
cap,  took  a  stick  from  the  corner,  and  went  out  into  the 
passage.  But  there  he  remembered,  and  came  quickly  back. 
He  folded  Hilda's  letter  and  put  it  away  in  a  drawer ;  then  he 
went  out  again.    "Are  you  ready,  Pennell  ?"  he  called. 

The  two  of  them  left  camp  and  set  out  across  the  docks. 
As  they  crossed  a  bridge  a  one-horse  cab  came  into  the  road 
from  a  side-street  and  turned  in  their  direction.  "Come  on," 
said  Peter.  "Anything  is  better  than  this  infernal  walk 
over  this  pave  always.    Let's  hop  in." 

They  stopped  the  man,  who  asked  where  to  drive  to. 

"Let's  go  to  the  Bretagne  first  and  get  a  drink,"  said 
Pennell. 


202  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Right,"  said  Peter— "any  old  thing.  Hotel  de  la 
Bretagne,"  he  called  to  the  driver. 

They  set  off  at  some  sort  of  a  pace,  and  Pennell  leaned 
back  with  a  laugh.  "It's  a  funny  old  world,  Graham,"  he 
said.  "One  does  get  fed-up  at  times.  Why  sitting  in  a 
funeral  show  like  this  cab  and  having  a  drink  in  a  second- 
rate  pub  should  be  any  amusement,  I  don't  know.  But  it  is. 
You're  infectious,  my  boy.  I  begin  to  feel  like  a  rag  myself. 
What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"The  great  thing,"  said  Peter  judiciously,  "is  not  to  know 
what  one  is  going  to  do.  but  just  to  take  anything  that  comes 
along.  I  remember  at  the  'Varsity  one  never  set  out  to  rag 
anything  definitely.  You  went  out  and  you  saw  a  bobby  and 
you  took  his  hat,  let  us  say.  You  cleared,  and  he  after  you. 
Anything  might  happen  then." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Pennell. 

"I  remember  once  walking  home  with  a  couple  of  men, 
and  one  of  them  suggested  dousing  all  the  street  lamps  in 
the  road,  which  was  a  residential  one  leading  into  town. 
There  wasn't  anything  in  it,  but  we  did  it.  One  man  put 
his  back  against  a  post,  while  the  second  went  on  to  the  next 
post.  Then  the  third  man  mounted  the  first  man's  back, 
shoved  out  the  light,  jumped  clear,  and  ran  on  past  the  next 
lamp-post  to  the  third.  The  first  man  jumped  on  No.  2's 
back  and  doused  his  lamp,  and  so  on.  We  did  the  street  in 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  a  constable  came  into  it  at  the  top. 
He  probably  thought  he  was  drunk,  then  he  spotted  lights 
going  out,  and  like  an  ass  he  blew  his  whistle.  We  were 
round  a  corner  in  no  time,  and  then  turned  and  ran  back  to 
see  if  we  could  offer  assistance!" 

"Some  gag!"  chuckled  Pennell;  "but  I  hope  you  won't  go 
on  that  sort  of  racket  to-night.  It  would  be  a  little  more 
serious  if  we  were  caught.  .  .  ,  Also,  these  blighted  gen- 
darmes would  probably  start  firing,  or  some  other  damned 
thing." 

"They  would,"  said  Peter;  "besides,  that  doesn't  appeal 


.  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  203 

to  me  now.  I'm  getting  too  old,  or  else  my  tastes  have 
become  depraved." 

The  one-horse  cab  stopped  with  a  jerk.  "Hop  out,"  said 
Peter.  He  settled  the  score,  and  the  two  of  them  entered 
the  hotd  and  passed  through  into  the  private  bar. 

"What  is  it  to  be?"  demanded  Pennell, 

"Cocktails  to-day,  old  son,"  said  Peter;  "I  want  bucking 
up.    What  do  you  say  to  martinis?" 

The  other  agreed,  and  they  moved  over  to  the  bar.  A 
monstrously  fat  woman  stood  behind  it,  like  some  bloated 
spider,  and  a  thin,  weedy-looking  girl  assisted  her.  A  couple 
of  men  were  already  there.  It  was  too  early  for  official 
drinks,  but  the  Bretagne  knew  no  law. 

They  ordered  their  drinks,  and  stood  there  while  madame 
compounded  them  and  put  in  the  cherries.  Another  man 
came  in,  and  Peter  recognised  the  Australian  Ferrars,  whom 
he  had  met  before.  He  introduced  Pennell  and  called  for 
another  martini. 

"So  you  frequent  this  poison-shop,  do  you?"  said  Ferrars. 

"Not  much,"  laughed  Peter,  "but  it's  convenient." 

"It  is,  and  it's  a  good  sign  when  a  man  like  you  wants  a 
drink.  I'd  sooner  listen  to  your  sermons  any  day  than 
some  chaps'  I  know." 

"Subject  barred  here,"  said  Pennell.  "But  here's  the  very 
best  to  you,  Graham,  for  all  that." 

"Same  here,"  said  Ferrars,  and  put  down  his  empty  glass. 

The  talk  became  general.  There  was  nothing  whatever  in 
it — mild  chaffing,  a  yarn  or  two,  a  guarded  description  by 
Peter  of  his  motor  drive  from  Abbeville,  and  then  more 
drinks.  And  so  on.  The  atmosphere  was  warm  and  genial, 
but  Peter  wondered  inwardly  why  he  liked  it,  and  he  did 
not  like  it  so  much  that  Pennell's  "Well,  what  about  it? 
Let's  go  on,  Graham,  shall  we?"  found  him  unready.  The 
two  said  a  general  good-bye,  promised  madame  to  look  in 
again,  and  sauntered  out. 

They  crossed  tlie  square  in  front  of  Travalini's,  lingered 


204  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

at  the  flower-stalls,  refused  the  girls'  pressure  to  buy,  and 
strolled  on.  "I'm  sick  of  Travalini's,"  said  Pcnnell.  "Don't 
let's  go  in  there." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Peter.  "Let's  stroll  down  towards  the 
sea." 

They  turned  down  a  side-street,  and  stood  for  a  few  min- 
utes looking  into  a  picture  and  book  shop.  At  that  moment 
quick  footsteps  sounded  on  the  pavement,  and  Pennell 
glanced  round. 

Two  girls  j)assed  them,  obviously  sisters.  They  were  not 
flashily  dressed  exactly,  but  there  was  something  in  their 
furs  and  their  high-heeled,  high-laced  boots  that  told  its 
own  story.  "By  Jove,  that's  a  pretty  girl!"  exclaimed  Pen- 
nell; "let's  follow  them." 

Peter  laughed;  he  was  reckless,  but  not  utterly  so.  "If 
you  like,"  he  said.  "I'm  on  for  any  rag.  We'll  take  them 
for  a  drink,  but  I  stop  at  that,  mintl,  Pen." 

"Sure  thing,"  said  Pennell.  "But  come  on;  we'll  miss 
them." 

They  set  out  after  the  girls,  who,  after  one  glance  back, 
walked  on  as  if  they  did  not  know  they  were  being  followed. 
But  they  walked  slowly,  and  it  was  easy  for  the  two  men 
to  catch  them  up. 

Peter  slackened  a  few  paces  behind.  "Look  here.  Pen," 
he  said,  "what  the  deuce  are  we  going  to  do?  They'll  ex^ 
pect  more  than  a  drink,  you  know." 

"Oh  no,  they  won't,  not  so  early  as  this.  It's  all  in  th«» 
way  of  business  to  them,  too.  Let's  pass  them  first,"  he 
suggested,  "and  then  slacken  down  and  wait  for  them  to 
speak. 

Peter  acquiesced,  feeling  rather  more  than  an  ass,  but 
the  drinks  had  gone  slightly  to  his  head.  They  executed 
.their  share  of  the  manoeuvre,  Pennell  looking  at  the  girls 
and  smiling  as  he  did  so.  But  the  two  quickened  their  pace 
and  passed  the  officers  without  a  word. 

"If  you  ask  me,  this  is  damned  silly,"  said  Peter.  "Let's 
chuck  it." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  205 

"No,  no ;  wait  a  bit,"  said  Pennell  excitedly.  "You'll  see 
what  they'll  do.  It's  really  an  amusing  study  in  human 
nature.     Look!     I  told  you  so.     They  live  there." 

The  girls  had  crossed  the  street,  and  were  entering  a  house. 
One  of  them  unlocked  the  door,  and  they  both  disappeared. 
"There,"  said  Peter,  "that  finishes  it.     We've  lost  them." 

"Have  we.?"  said  his  companion.     "Come  on  over." 

They  crossed  the  street  and  walked  up  to  the  door.  It  was 
open  and  perhaps  a  foot  ajar.  Pennell  pushed  it  wide  and 
walked  in.  "Come  on,"  he  said  again.  Peter  followed  re- 
luctantly, but  curious.  He  was  seeing  a  new  side  of  life,  he 
thought  grimly. 

Before  them  a  flight  of  stairs  led  straight  up  to  a  landing, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  the  girls.  "What's  next?"  de- 
manded Peter.  "We'll  be  fired  out  in  two  twos  if  nothing 
worse  happens.  Suppose  they're  decent  girls  after  all ;  what 
would  you  say?" 

"Fd  ask  if  Mile.  Lucienne  lived  here,"  said  Pennell,  "and 
apologise  profusely  when  I  found  she  didn't.  But  you 
can't  make  a  mistake  in  this  street,  Graham.  I'm  going 
up.  It's  the  obvious  thing,  and  probably  what  they  wanted. 
Coming?" 

He  set  off  to  mount  the  stairs,  and  Peter,  reassured,  fol- 
lowed him,  at  a  few  paces.  When  he  reached  the  top,  Pen- 
nell was  already  entering  an  open  door. 

"How  do  you  do,  ma  cherie?"  said  one  of  the  girls, 
smiling,  and  holding  out  a  hand. 

Peter  looked  round  curiously.  The  room  was  fairly  de- 
cently furnished  in  a  foreign  middle-clas^  fashion,  half  bed- 
room, half  sitting-room.  One  of  the  girls  sat  on  the  arm 
of  a  big  chair,  the  other  was  greeting  his  friend.  She  was 
the  one  he  had  fancied,  but  a  quick  glance  attracted  Peter 
to  the  other  and  elder.  He  was  in  for  it  now,  and  he  was 
determined  to  play  up.  He  crossed  the  floor,  and  smiled 
down  at  the  girl  on  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"So  you  'ave  come,"  she  said  in  broken  English.  "I  told 
Lucienne  that  vou  would  not." 


2o6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Lucienne !"  exclaimed  Peter,  and  looked  back  at  Pennell. 

That  traitor  laughed,  and  seated  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  drawing  the  other  girl  to  him.  "I'm  awfully  sorry, 
Graham,"  he  said ;  "but  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  wanted  to 
see  life,  and  you'd  have  shied  off  if  I  hadn't  played  a  game. 
I  do  just  know  this  little  girl,  and  jolly  nice  she  is  too.  Give 
me  a  kiss,  Lulu." 

The  girl  obeyed,  her  eyes  sparkling.  "It's  not  proper 
before  monsieur,"  she  said.  "  'E  is — how  do  you  say? — • 
shocked  ?" 

She  seated  herself  on  Pennell's  knee,  and,  putting  an  arm 
round  his  neck,  kissed  him  again,  looking  across  at  Peter 
mischievously.  "We  show  'im  French  kiss,"  she  added  to 
Pennell,  and  pouted  out  her  lips  to  his. 

"Well,  now  you  'ave  come,  what  do  you  want?"  de- 
manded the  girl  on  the  arm  of  Peter's  chair.  "Sit  down," 
she  said  imperiously,  patting  the  seat,  "and  talk  to  me." 

Peter  laughed  more  lightly  than  he  felt.  "Well,  I  want 
a  drink,"  he  said  at  random.  "Pen,"  he  called  across  the 
room,  "what  about  that  drink?"  The  girl  by  him  reached 
over  and  touched  a  bell.  As  she  did  so,  Peter  saw  the  curls 
that  clustered  on  her  neck  and  caught  the  perfume  of  her 
hair.  It  was  penetrating  and  peculiar,  but  not  distasteful, 
and  it  did  all  that  it  was  meant  to  do.  He  bent  and  kissed 
the  back  of  her  neck,  still  marvelling  at  himself. 

She  straightened  herself,  smiling.  "That  is  better.  You 
aren't  so  cold  as  you  pretended,  cherie.  Now  kiss  me  prop- 
erly," and  she  held  up  her  face. 

Peter  kissed  her  lips.  Before  he  knew  it,  a  pair  of  arms 
were  thrown  about  his  neck,  and  he  was  being  half -suffo- 
cated with  kisses.  He  tore  himself  away,  disgusted  and 
ashamed. 

"No !"  he  cried  sharply,  but  knowing  that  it  was  too  late. 

The  girl  threw  herself  back,  laughing  merrily.  "Oh,  you 
are  funny!"  she  said.  "Lucienne,  take  your  boy  away;  I 
want  to  talk  to  mine." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  207 

Before  he  could  think  of  a  remonstrance,  it  was  done. 
Pennell  and  the  other  girl  got  up  from  the  bed  where  they 
had  been  whispering  together,  and  left  the  room.  "Pennell!" 
called  Peter,  too  late  again,  jumping  up.  The  girl  ran 
round  him,  pushed  the  door  to,  locked  it,  and  dropped  the 
key  down  the  neck  of  her  dress.    "Voila!"  she  said  gaily. 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door.  "Non,  non !"  she  cried 
in  French.    "Take  the  wine  to  Mile.  Lucienne;  I  am  busy." 

Peter  walked  across  the  room  to  her.  "Give  me  the  key," 
he  said,  holding  out  his  hand,  and  changing  his  tactics. 
"Please  do.  I  won't  go  till  my  friend  comes  back.  I 
promise." 

The  girl  looked  at  him.  "You  promise?  But  you  will 
'ave  to  find  it." 

He  smiled  and  nodded,  and  she  walked  deliberately  to  the 
bed,  undid  the  front  of  her  costume,  and  slipped  it  off. 
Bare  necked  and  armed,  she  turned  to  him,  holding  open 
the  front  of  her  chemise.     "Down  there,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  strange  moment  and  a  strange  thing,  but  a  curi- 
ous courage  came  back  to  Peter  in  that  second.  Without 
hesitation,  he  put  his  hand  down  and  sought  for  the  key 
against  her  warm  body.  He  found  it,  and  held  it  up,  smiling. 
Then  he  moved  to  the  door,  pushed  the  key  in  the  keyhole, 
and  turned  again  to  the  girl.     "There!"  he  said  simply. 

With  a  gesture  of  abandon,  she  threw  herself  on  the  bed, 
propping  her  cheek  on  her  hand  and  staring  at  him.  He  sat 
down  where  Pennell  had  sat,  but  made  no  attempt  to  touch 
her,  leaning,  instead,  back  and  away  against  the  iron  bed- 
post. She  pulled  up  her  knees,  flung  her  arms  back,  and 
laughed.     "And  now,  monsieur?"  she  said. 

Peter  had  never  felt  so  cool  in  his  life.  His  thoughts 
raced,  but  steadily,  as  if  he  had  dived  into  cold,  clear  water. 
He  smiled  again,  unhesitatingly,  but  sadly.  "Dear,"  he  said 
deliberately,  "listen  to  me.  I  have  cheated  you  by  coming 
here  to-day,  though  you  shan't  suffer  for  it.  I  did  not  want 
anything,  and  I  don't  now.     But  I'm  glad  I've  conie.  even 


2o8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

though  you  do  not  understand.  I  don't  want  to  do  a  bit 
what  my  friend  is  doing.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  don't. 
I'm  engaged  to  a  girl  in  England,  but  it's  not  because  of  that. 
I'm  a  chaplain  too — a  cure,  you  know — in  the  English  Army ; 
but  it's  not  because  of  that." 

"Protestant?"  demanded  the  girl  on  the  bed. 

He  nodded.  "Ah,  well,"  she  said,  "the  Protestant  min- 
isters have  wives.  They  are  men ;  it  is  dilTerent  with  priests. 
If  your  fiancee  is  wise,  she  wouldn't  mind  if  you  love  me  a 
little.  She  is  in  England  ;  I  am  here — is  it  not  so  ?  You  love 
me  now ;  again,  perhaps,  once  or  twice.  Then  it  is  finished. 
You  do  not  tell  your  fiancee,  and  she  does  not  know.  It  is 
no  matter.     Come  on,  cherie!" 

She  held  out  her  hands  and  threw  her  head  back  on  the 
pillow. 

Peter  smiled  again.  "You  do  not  understand,"  he  said. 
"And  nor  do  I,  but  I  must  be  difTerent  from  some  men.  I 
do  not  want  to." 

"Ah,  well,"  she  exclaimed  brightly,  sitting  up,  "another 
time !     Give  me  my  dress,  monsieur  le  cure." 

He  got  up  and  handed  it  to  her.  "Tell  me,"  he  said,  "do 
you  like  this  sort  of  life?" 

She  shrugged  her  white  shoulders  indifferently.  "Some- 
times," she  said — "sometimes  not.  There  are  good  boys 
and  bad  boys.  Some  are  rough,  cruel,  mean ;  some  are  kind, 
and  remember  that  it  costs  much  to  live  these  days,  and  one 
must  dress  nicely.  See."  she  said  deliberately,  showing  him, 
"it  is  lace,  fine  lace;  I  pay  fifty  francs  in  Paris!" 

"I  will  give  you  that,"  said  Peter,  and  he  placed  the  note 
on  the  bed. 

She  stared  at  it  and  at  him.  "Oh,  I  love  you !"  she  cried. 
"You  are  kind!    Ah,  now,  if  I  could  but  love  you  always!" 

"Always  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Yes,  always,  always,  while  you  are  here,  in  Le  Havre. 
I  would  have  no  other  boy  but  you.  Ah,  if  you  would! 
You  do  not  know  how  one  tires  of  tlie  music-hall,  the  drinks. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  209 

the  smiles!  I  would  do  just  all  you  please — be  gay,  be  sol- 
emn, talk,  be  silent,  just  as  you  please!    Oh,  if  you  would!" 

Half  in  and  half  out  of  her  dress,  she  stood  there,  plead- 
ing. Peter  looked  closely  at  the  little  face  with  its  rouge 
and  powder. 

"You  hate  that !"  she  exclaimed,  with  quick  intuition. 
"See,  it  is  gone.  I  use  it  no  more,  only  a  leetle,  leetle,  for 
the  night."  And  she  ran  across  to  the  basin,  dipped  a 
little  sponge  in  water,  passed  it  over  her  face,  and  turned 
to  him  triumphantly. 

Peter  sighed.  "Little* girl,"  he  said  sadly,  hardly  knowing 
that  he  spoke.    "I  cannot  save  myself :  how  can  I  save  you?" 

"Pouf !"  she  cried.  "Save!  What  do  you  mean?"  She 
drew  herself  up  with  an  absurd  gesture.  "You  think  me  a 
bad  girl?  No,  I  am  not  bad;  I  go  to  church.  Le  bon  Dieu 
made  us  as  we  are ;  it  is  necessaire." 

They  stood  before  each  other,  a  strange  pair,  the  product 
of  a  strange  age.  God  knows  what  the  angels  made  of  it. 
But  at  any  rate  Peter  was  honest.  He  thought  of  Julie,  and 
he  would  not  cast  a  stone. 

There  came  a  light  knock  at  the  door.  The  girl  disre- 
garded it,  and  ran  to  him.  "You  will  come  again?"  she 
said  in  low  tones.  "Promise  me  that  you  will !  I  will  not 
ask  you  for  anything;  you  can  do  as  you  please;  but  come 
again !     Do  come  again !" 

Peter  passed  his  hand  over  her  hair.  "I  will  come  if  I 
can,"  he  said ;  "but  the  Lord  knows  why." 

The  knock  came  again,  a  little  louder.  The  girl  smiled  and 
held  her  face  up.     "Kiss  me,"  she  demanded. 

He  complied,  and  she  darted  away,  fumbling  with  her 
dress.  "I  come,"  she  called,  and  opened  the  door.  Lucienne 
and  Pennell  came  in,  and  the  two  men  exchanged  glances. 
Then  Pennell  looked  away.  Lucienne  glanced  at  them  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Come,  Graham,"  said  Pennell; 
"let's  get  out!     Good-bye,  you  two." 

The  pair  of  them  went  down  and  out  in  silence.    No  one 


2IO  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

had  seen  them  come,  and  there  was  no  one  to  see  them  go. 
Peter  glanced  at  the  number  and  made  a  mental  note  of  it, 
and  they  set  off  down  the  street. 

Presently  Pennell  laughed.  "I  played  you  a  dirty  trick, 
Graham,"  he  said.     "I'm  sorry." 

"You  needn't  be,"  said  Peter ;  "I'm  very  glad  I  went." 

"Why?"  said  Pennell  curiously,  glancing  sideways  at  him. 
"You  arc  a  queer  fellow,  Graham."  But  there  was  a  note 
of  relief  in  his  tone. 

Peter  said  nothing,  but  walked  on.  "Where  next?"  de- 
manded Pennell. 

"It  looks  as  if  you  are  directing  this  outfit,"  said  Peter; 
''I'm  in  vour  hands." 

"All  right,"  said  Pennell;  "I  know." 

They  took  a  street  running  parallel  to  the  docks,  and  en- 
tered an  American  bar.  Peter  glanced  round  curiously. 
"I've  never  been  here  before,"  he  said. 

"Probably  not,"  said  Pennell.  "It's  not  much  at  this  time 
of  the  year,  but  jolly  cool  in  the  summer.  And  you  can 
get  first-class  cocktails.  I  want  something  now ;  what's 
yours?" 

"I'll  leave  it  to  you,"  said  Peter. 

He  sat  down  at  a  little  table  rather  in  the  comer  and  lit 
a  cigarette.  The  place  was  well  lighted,  and  by  means  of 
mirrors,  coloured-glass  ornaments,  paper  decorations,  and  a 
few  palms,  it  looked  in  its  own  way  smart.  Two  or  three 
officers  were  drinking  at  the  bar,  sitting  on  high  stools,  and 
Pennell  went  up  to  give  his  order.  He  brought  two  glasses 
to  Peter's  table  and  sat  down.  "What  fools  we  are,  padre!" 
he  said.  "I  sometimes  think  that  the  man  who  gets  simply 
and  definitely  tight  when  he  feels  he  wants  a  breather  is 
wiser  than  most  of  us.  We  drink  till  we're  excited,  and 
then  we  drink  to  ^et  over  it.  And  I  suppose  the  devil  sits 
and  grins.  Well,  it's  a  weary  world,  and  there  isn't  any 
good  road  out  of  it.  I  sometimes  wish  I'd  stopped  a  bullet 
earlier  on  in  the  day.  And  yet  I  don't  know,  W'e  do  get 
some  excitement.     Let's  go  to  a  music-hall  to-night." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  211 

"What  about  dinner?" 

"Oh,  get  a  quiet  one  in  a  decent  hotel.  I'll  have  to  clear 
out  at  half-time  if  you  don't  mind." 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Peter.  "Half  will  be  enough  for  me, 
I  think.  But  let's  have  dinner  before  we've  had  more  of 
these  things." 

The  bar  was  filling  up.  A  few  girls  came  and  went. 
Pennell  nodded  to  a  man  or  two,  and  finished  his  glass.  And 
they  went  off  to  dinner. 

The  music-hall  was  not  much  of  a  show,  but  it  glittered, 
and  people  obviously  enjoyed  it.  Peter  watched  the  audi- 
ence as  much  as  the  stage.  Quite  respectable  French  fam- 
ilies were  there,  and  there  was  nothing  done  that  might  not 
have  been  done  on  an  English  stage — perhaps  less,  but  the 
words  were  dilTerent.  The  women  as  well  as  the  men 
screamed  with  laughter,  flushed  of  face,  but  an  old  fellow, 
with  his  wife  and  daughter,  obviously  from  the  country,  sat 
as  stiffly  as  an  English  farmer  through  it  all.  The  daughter 
glanced  once  at  the  two  officers,  but  then  looked  away ;  she 
was  well  brought  up.  A  half-caste  Algerian,  probably,  came 
on  and  danced  really  extraordinarily  well,  and  a  negro  from 
the  States,  equally  ready  in  French  and  English,  sang  songs 
which  the  audience  demanded.  He  was  entirely  master,  how- 
ever, and,  conscious  of  his  power,  used  it.  No  one  in  the 
place  seemed  to  have  heard  of  the  colour-bar,  except  a  couple 
of  Americans,  who  got  up  and  walked  out  when  the  comedian 
clasped  a  white  girl  round  the  waist  in  one  of  his  songs. 
The  negro  made  some  remark  that  Peter  couldn't  catch,  and 
the  place  shook  with  laughter. 

At  half-time  everyone  flocked  into  a  queer  kind  of  semi- 
underground  hall  whose  walls  were  painted  to  represent  a 
cave,  dingy  cork  festoons  and  "rocks"  adding  to  the  illusion. 
Here,  at  long  tables,  everyone  drank  innocuous  French  beer, 
that  was  really  quite  cool  and  good.  It  was  rather  like  part 
of  qn  English  bank  holiday.  Everybody  spoke  to  everybody 
else,  and  there  were  no  classes  and  distinctions.  You  could 
only  get  one  glass  of  beer,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there 


212 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


were  too  many  drinking  and  too  few  supplying  the  drinks 
for  more  in  tlie  time. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Pennell,  "but  don't  you  bother  to  come." 

"Oh  yes,  I  will,"  said  Peter,  and  they  got  up  together. 

In  the  entrance-hall,  however,  a  girl  was  apparently  wait- 
ing for  someone,  and  as  they  passed  Peter  recognised  her. 
"Louise!"  he  exclaimed. 

She  smiled  and  held  out  her  hand.  Peter  took  it,  and 
Pennell  after  him. 

"Do  you  go  now?"  she  asked  them.  "The  concert  is  not 
half  fmishcd." 

"I've  got  to  get  back  to  work,"  said  Pennell,  "worse  luck. 
It  is  la  guerre,  you  know !" 

"Poor  boy!"  said  she  gaily.  "And  you?"  turning  to 
Peter. 

Moved  by  an  impulse,  he  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said, 
"I   nas  only  seeing  liim  home." 

"Bien !     See  me  home  instead,  then,"  said  Louise. 

"Nothing  doing,"  said  Peter,  using  a  familiar  phrase. 

She  laughed.  "Bah !  cannot  a  girl  have  friends  without 
that,  eh  ?  Vou  have  a  fiancee,  'ave  you  not  ?  Oh  yes,  I  re- 
memlier — I  remember  very  well.  Come!  I  have  done  for 
to-ilay ;  I  am  tired.  I  will  make  you  some  cotTee,  and  we 
shall  talk.     Is  it  not  so?" 

Peter  looked  at  Pennell.  "Do  you  mind,  Pen?"  he  asked. 
''I'd  rather  like  to." 

"Not  a  scrap,"  said  the  other  cheerfully;  "wish  I  could 
come  too.     Ask  me  another  day,  Louise,  will  you?" 

She  regarded  him  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side.  "I 
do  not  know,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  think  you  would  talk 
with  me  as  he  will.  You  like  what  you  can  get  from  the 
girls  of  France  now ;  but  after,  no  more.  Monsieur,  'e  is 
different.  Pie  want  not  quite  the  same.  Oh,  I  know! 
Allons." 

Pennell  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "One  for  me,"  he  said. 
"Well,  good-night.     I  hope  you  both  enjoy  yourselves." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  213 

In  five  minutes  Peter  and  Louise  were  walking  together 
down  the  street.  A  few  passers-by  glanced  at  them,  or  es- 
pecially at  her,  but  she  took  no  notice,  and  Peter,  in  a  little, 
felt  the  strangeness  of  it  all  much  less.  He  deliberately 
crossed  once  or  twice  to  get  between  her  and  the  road,  as 
he  would  have  done  with  a  lady,  and  moved  slightly  in 
front  of  her  when  they  encountered  two  drunken  men.  She 
chatted  about  nothing  in  particular,  and  Peter  thought  to 
himself  that  he  might  almost  have  been  escorting  Hilda  home. 
But  if  Hilda  had  seen  him! 

She  ushered  him  into  her  flat.  It  was  cosy  and  nicely 
furnished,  very  difTercnt  from  that  of  the  afternoon.  A 
photograph  or  two  stood  about  in  silver  frames,  a  few  easy- 
chairs,  a  little  table,  a  bookshelf,  and  a  cupboard.  A  fire 
was  alight  in  the  grate ;  Louise  knelt  down  and  poked  it  into 
a  flame. 

"You  shall  have  French  colTee,"  she  said..  "And  I  have 
even  lait  for  you."  She  put  a  copper  kettle  on  the  fire,  and 
busied  herself  with  cups  and  saucers.  These  she  arranged 
on  the  little  table,  and  drew  it  near  the  fir?  Then  she  olTered 
him  a  cigarette  from  a  gold  case,  and  took  one  hersdf. 
■'Ah!"  she  said,  sinking  back  into  a  chair.  "Now  we  are,  as 
you  say,  comfy,  is  it  not  so?  We  can  talk.  Tell  me  how  you 
like  la  France,  and  what  you  do." 

Peter  tried,  but  failed  rather  miserably,  and  the  shrewd 
French  girl  noticed  it  easily  enough.  She  all  but  inter- 
rupted him  as  he  talked  of  Abbeville  and  the  raid.  "Mon 
ami,"  she  said,  "you  have  something  on  your  mind.  You 
do  not  want  to  talk  of  these  things.    Tell  me." 

Peter  looked  into  the  kindly  keen  eyes.  "You  are  right, 
Louise,"  he  said.    "This  is  a  day  of  trouble  for  me." 

She  nodded.  "Tell  me,"  she  said  again,  "But  first,  what 
is  your  name,  mon  ami?  It  is  hard  to  talk  if  one  does  not 
know  even  the  name." 

He  hardly  hesitated.  It  seemed  natural  to  say  it.  "Peter," 
he  said. 


«I4  SIMOxN  CALLED  PETER 

She  smiled,  rolling  the  "r."     "Pcterr.     Well,  Peterr,  go 


on." 


"I'll  tell  you  about  to-day  first,"  he  said,  and,  once 
launched,  did  so  easily.  He  told  the  little  story  well,  and 
presently  forgot  the  strange  surroundings.  It  was  all  but 
a  confession,  and  surely  one  was  never  more  strangely  made. 
And  from  the  story  he  spoke  of  Julie,  but  concealed  her 
identity,  and  then  he  spoke  of  God.  I^uise  hardly  said  a 
word.  She  poured  out  coffee  in  the  middle,  but  that  was 
all.    At  last  he  finished. 

"Ia)uise,"  he  said,  "it  comes  to  this:  I've  nothing  left  but 
Julie.  It  was  she  restrained  me  this  afternoon,  I  think.  I'm 
mad  for  her ;  I  want  her  and  nothing  else.  But  with  her, 
somehow,  I  lose  everything  else  I  possess  or  ever  thought  I 
possessed."  And  he  stopj^d  abruptly,  for  she  did  not  know 
his  business  in  life,  and  he  had  almost  given  it  away. 

When  he  had  finished  she  slipped  a  hand  into  his,  and 
said  no  word.  Suddenly  she  looked  up.  "Peterr,  mon  ami," 
she  said,  "listen  to  me.  I  will  tell  you  the  story  of  Louise, 
of  me.  My  father,  he  lived — oh,  it  matters  not ;  but  he  had 
some  money,  he  was  not  poor.  I  went  to  a  good  school,  and 
I  came  home  for  the  holidays.  I  had  one  sister  older  than 
me.  Presently  I  grew  up ;  I  learnt  much ;  I  noticed.  I  saw 
there  were  terrible  things,  chez  nous.  My  mother  did  not 
care,  but  I — I  cared.  I  was  mad.  I  spoke  to  my  sister:  it 
was  no  good.  I  spoke  to  my  father,  and,  truly,  I  thought 
he  would  kill  me.  He  beat  me — ah,  terrible — and  I  ran 
from  the  house.  I  wept  under  the  hedges :  I  said  I  would 
no  more  go  'ome.  I  come  to  a  big  city.  I  found  work  in  a 
big  shop — much  work,  little  money — ah,  how  little!  Then 
I  met  a  friend :  he  persuade  me,  at  last  he  keep  me — two 
months,  three,  or  more ;  then  comes  the  war.  He  is  an  offi- 
cer, and  he  goes.  We  kiss,  we  part — oui,  he  love  me,  that 
officer.  I  pray  for  him :  I  think  I  nevair  leave  the  church ; 
but  it  is  no  good.  He  is  dead.  Then  I  curse  le  bon  Dieu. 
They  know  me  in  that  place :  I  can  do  nothing  unless  I  wili 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  215 

go  to  an  'otel — to  be  for  the  officers,  you  understand?  I 
say,  Non.  I  sell  my  things  and  I  come  here.  Here  I  do 
well— you  understand?  I  am  careful;  I  have  now  my 
home.  But  this  is  what  I  tell  you,  Peterr:  one  does  wrong 
to  curse  le  bon  Dieu.  He  is  wise — ah,  how  wise! — it  is  not 
for  me  to  say.  And  good — ah,  Jesu !  how  good!  You 
think  I  do  not  know;  I,  how  should  I  know?  But  I  know. 
I  do  not  understand.  For  me,  I  am  caught;  I  am  like  the 
bird  in  the  cage.  I  cannot  get  out.  So  I  smile,  I  laugh — 
and  I  wait." 

She  ceased.  Peter  was  strangely  moved,  and  he  pressed 
the  hand  he  held  almost  fiercely.  The  tragedy  of  her  life 
seemed  so  great  that  he  hardly  dare  speak  of  his  own.  But: 
"What  has  it  to  do  wiih  me?"  he  demanded. 

She  gave  a  little  laugh.  " 'Ow  should  I  say?"  she  said. 
"But  you  think  God  not  remember  you,  and,  Peterr,  He 
remember  all  the  time." 

"And  Julie?"  quizzed  Peter  after  a  moment. 

Louise  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "This  love,"  she  said, 
"it  is  one  great  thing.  For  us  women  it  is  perhaps  the 
only  great  thing,  though  your  English  women  are  blind,  are 
dead,  they  do  not  see.  Julie,  she  is  as  us,  I  think.  She  is 
French  inside.  La  pauvre  petite,  she  is  French  in  the 
heart." 

"Well?"  demanded  Peter  again. 

"C'est  tout,  mon  ami.     But  I  am  sorry  for  Julie." 

"Louise,"  said  Peter  impulsively,  "you're  better  than  I — 
a  thousand  times.  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you."  And 
he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips. 

He  hardly  touched  it.  She  sprang  up,  withdrawing  it. 
"Ah,  non,  non."  she  cried.  "You  must  not.  You  forget. 
It  is  easy  for  you,  for  you  are  good — yes,  so  good.  You 
think  I  did  not  notice  in  the  street,  but  I  see.  You  treat 
me  like  a  lady,  and  now  you  kiss  my  hand,  the  hand  of  the 
girl  of  the  street,  .  .  .  Non,  non !"  she  protested  vehemently, 
her  eyes  alight.    "I  would  kiss  your  feet  1" 


2i6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Outside,  in  the  darkened  street,  Peter  walked  slowly  home. 
At  the  gate  of  the  camp  he  met  Arnold,  returning  from  a 
visit  to  another  mess.  "Hullo!"  he  called  to  Peter,  "and 
where  have  you  been?" 

Peter  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  without  replying.  "Pm 
not  sure,  but  seeing  for  the  first  time  a  little  of  what  Christ 
saw,  Arnold,  I  think,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  catch  in  his 
voice. 


CHAPTER  IV 

LOOKING  back  on  them  afterwards,  Peter  saw  the 
months  that  followed  as  a  time  of  waiting  between  two 
periods  of  stress.  Not,  of  course,  that  anyone  can  ever 
stand  still,  for  even  if  one  does  but  sit  by  a  fire  and  warm 
one's  hands,  things  happen,  and  one  is  imperceptibly  led 
forward.  It  was  so  in  this  case,  but,  not  unnaturally, 
Graham  hardly  noticed  in  what  way  his  mind  was  moving. 
He  had  been  through  a  period  of  storm,  and  he  had  to  a 
certain  extent  emerged  from  it.  The  men  he  had  met,  and 
above  all  Julie,  had  been  responsible  for  the  opening  of  his 
eyes  to  facts  that  he  had  before  passed  over,  and  it  was 
entirely  to  his  credit  that  he  would  not  refuse  to  accept 
tiiem  and  act  upon  them.  But  once  he  had  resolved  to  do  so 
things,  as  it  were,  slowed  down.  He  went  about  his  work 
in  a  new  spirit,  the  spirit  not  of  the  teacher,  but  of  the 
learner,  and  ever  since  his  talk  with  Louise  he  thought — • 
or  tried  to  think — more  of  what  love  might  mean  to  Julie 
than  to  himself.  The  result  was  a  curious  change  in  their 
relations,  of  which  the  girl  was  more  immediately  and  con- 
tinually conscious  than  Peter.  She  puzzled  over  it,  but 
could  not  get  the  clue,  and  her  quest  irritated  her. 
Peter  had  always  been  the  least  little  bit  nervous  in  her 
presence.  She  had  known  that  he  never  knew  what  she 
would  do  or  say  next,  and  her  knowledge  had  amused  and 
carried  her  away.  But  now  he  was  so  self-possessed.  Very 
friendly  they  were,  and  they  met  often — in  the  ward  for  a 
few  sentences  that  meant  much  to  each  of  them;  down 
town  by  arrangement  in  a  cafe,  or  once  or  twice  for  dinner ; 
and  once  for  a  day  in  the  country,  though  not  alone;  and 

217 


2i8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

he  was  always  the  same.  Sometimes,  on  night  duty,  she 
would  grope  for  an  adjective  to  fit  him,  and  could  only  think 
of  "tender."  He  was  that.  And  she  hated  it,  or  all  but 
hated  it.  She  did  not  want  tenderness  from  him,  for  it 
seemed  to  her  that  tenderness  meant  that  he^  was,  as  it  were, 
standing  aloof  from  her,  considering,  helping  when  he  could. 
She  demanded  the  fierce  rush  of  passion  with  which  he  would 
seize  and  shrine  her  in  the  centre  of  his  heart,  deaf  to  her 
entreaties,  careless  of  her  pain.  She  would  love  then,  she 
thought,  and  sometimes,  going  to  the  window  of  the  ward 
and  staring  out  over  the  harbour  at  the  twinkling  lights, 
she  would  bite  her  lip  with  the  pain  of  it.  He  had  thought 
she  dismissed  love  lightly  when  she  called  it  animal  passion. 
Good  God,  if  he  only  knew!  .  .  . 

Peter,  for  his  part,  did  not  realise  so  completely  the  change 
that  had  come  over  him.  For  one  thing,  he  saw  himself 
all  the  time,  and  she  did  not.  She  did  not  see  him  when 
he  lay  on  his  bed  in  a  tense  agony  of  desire  for  her.  She 
did  not  see  him  when  life  looked  like  a  tumbled  heap  of 
ruins  to  him  and  she  smiled  beyond.  She  all  but  only  saw 
him  when  he  was  staring  at  the  images  that  had  been  pre 
sentcd  to  him  during  the  past  months,  or  hearing  in  imagin- 
ation Louise's  quaintly  accepted  English  and  her  quick  and 
vivid  "La  pauvre  petite!" 

For  it  was  Louise,  curiously  enough,  who  afTected  him 
most  in  these  days.  A  friendship  sprang  up  between  them 
of  which  no  one  knew.  Pennell  and  Donovan,  with  whom 
he  went  everywhere,  did  not  speak  of  it  either  to  him  or  to 
one  another,  with  that  real  diivalry  that  is  in  most  men,  but 
if  they  had  they  would  have  blundered,  misunderstanding. 
Arnold,  of  whom  Peter  saw  a  good  deal,  did  not  know,  or, 
if  he  knew,  Peter  never  knew  that  he  knew.  Julie,  who 
was  well  aware  of  his  friendship  with  the  two  first  men, 
knew  that  he  saw  French  girls,  and,  indeed,  openly  chaffed 
him  about  it.  But  under  her  chaff  was  an  anxiety,  typical 
of  her.     She  did  not  know  how  far  he  went  in  their  <:om- 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  219 

pany,  and  she  would  have  given  anything  to  know.  She 
guessed  that,  despite  ever>1;hing,  he  had  had  no  physical 
relationship  with  any  one  of  them,  and  she  almost  wished  it 
might  be  otherwise.  She  knew  well  that  if  he  fell  to  them, 
he  would  the  more  readily  turn  to  her.  There  was  a  strength 
about  him  now  that  she  dreaded. 

Whatever  Louise  thought  she  kept  wonderfully  hidden. 
He  took  her  out  to  dinner  in  quiet  places,  and  she  would 
take  him  home  to  coffee,  and  they  would  chat,  and  there 
was  an  end.  She  was  seemingly  well  content.  She  did  her 
business,  and  they  would  even  speak  of  it.  "I  cannot  come 
to-night,  mon  ami,"  she  would  say;  "I  am  busy."  She 
would  nod  to  him  as  she  passed  out  of  the  restaurant  with 
someone  else,  and  he  would  smile  back  at  her.  Nor  did  he 
ever  remonstrate  or  urge  her  to  change  her  ways.  And  she 
knew  why.     He  had  no  key  with  which  to  open  her  cage. 

Once,  truly,  he  attempted  it,  and  it  was  she  who  refused 
the  glittering  thing.  He  rarely  came  uninvited  to  her  flat, 
for  obvious  reasons ;  but  one  night  she  heard  him  on  the 
stairs  as  she  got  ready  for  bed.  He  was  walking  unsteadily, 
and  she  thought  at  first  that  he  had  been  drinking.  She 
opened  to  him  with  the  carelessness  her  life  had  taught  her, 
her  costume  off,  and  her  black  hair  all  about  her  shoulders. 
"Go  in  and  wait,  Peterr,"  she  said ;     "I  come." 

She  had  slipped  on  a  coloured  silk  wrap,  and  gone  in  to 
the  sitting-room  to  find  him  pacing  up  and  down.  She 
smiled.  "Sit  down,  mon  ami,"  she  said;  "I  will  make  the 
coffee.  See,  it  is  ready.  Mais  vraiment,  you  shall  drink 
cafe  noir  to-night.  And  one  leetle  glass  of  this — is  it  not 
so?"  and  she  took  a  green  bottle  of  peppermint  liqueur  from 
the  cupboard. 

"Coft'ee,  Louise,"  he  said,  "but  not  the  other.  I  don't 
want  it." 

She  turned  and  looked  more  closely  at  him  then.  "Non," 
she  said,  "pardon.  But  sit  you  down.  Am  I  to  have  the 
wild  beast  prowling  up  and  down  in  my  place?" 


220  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"That's  just  it,  Louise,"  he  cried ;  "I  am  a  wild  beast  to- 
night.    I  can't  stand  it  any  longer.     Kiss  me." 

He  put  his  arms  round  her,  and  bent  her  head  back, 
studying  her  French  and  rather  inscrutable  eyes,  her  dark 
lashes,  her  mobile  mouth,  her  long  white  throat.  He  put  his 
hand  caressingly  upon  it,  and  slid  his  fingers  beneath  the 
loose  lace  that  the  open  wrap  exposed.  "Dear,"  he  said,  "I 
want  you  to-night." 

"To-night,  cherie?"  she  questioned. 

"Yes,  now,"  he  said  hotly.  "And  why  not?  You  give 
to  other  men — why  not  to  me,  Louise?" 

She  freed  herself  with  a  quick  gesture,  and,  brave  heart, 
she  laughed  merrily.  The  devil  must  have  started  at  that 
laugh,  and  the  angels  of  God  sung  for  joy.  "Ah,  non," 
she  cried.  "It  is  the  mistake  you  make.  I  sell  myself  to 
other  men.  But  you — you  are  my  friend ;  I  cannot  sell 
myself  to  you." 

He  did  not  understand  altogether  why  she  quibbled ;  how 
should  he  have  done?  But  he  was  ashamed.  He  slid  into 
the  familiar  chair  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair. 
"Forgive  me,  dear,"  he  muttered.  "I  think  I  am  mad  to- 
night, but  I  am  not  drunk,  as  you  thought,  except  with  wor- 
rying. I  feel  lost,  unclean,  body  and  soul,  and  I  thought  you 
would  help  me  to  forget — no,  more  than  that,  help  me  to  feel 
a  man.  Can't  you,  won't  you?"  he  demanded,  looking  up. 
"I  am  tired  of  play-acting.  I've  a  body,  like  other  men.  Let 
me  plunge  down  deep  to-night,  Louise.  It  will  do  me  good, 
and  it  doesn't  matter.  That  girl  was  right  after  all.  Oh, 
what  a  fool  I  am!" 

Then  did  the  girl  of  the  streets  set  out  to  play  her  chosen 
part.  She  did  not  preach  at  all — how  could  she?  Besides, 
neither  had  she  any  use  for  the  Ten  Commandments.  But 
if  ever  Magdalene  broke  an  alabaster-box  of  very  precious 
ointment,  Louise  did  so  that  night.  She  was  worldly  wise, 
and  she  did  not  disdain  to  use  her  wisdom.  And  when  he 
had  gone  she  got  calmly  into  bed,  and  slept — not  all  at  once, 
it  is  true,  but  as  resolutely  as  she  had  laughed  and  talked. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  221 

It  was  only  when  she  woke  in  the  morning  that  she  found 
her  pillow  wet  with  tears. 

It  was  a  few  days  later  that  Louise  took  Peter  to  church. 
His  ignorance  of  her  religion  greatly  amused  her,  or  so  at 
least  she  pretended,  and  when  he  asked  her  to  come  out  of 
town  to  lunch  one  morning,  and  she  refused  because  it  was 
Corpus  Christi,  and  she  wanted  to  go  to  the  sung  Mass,  it 
was  he  who  suggested  tliat  he  should  go  with  her.  She 
looked  at  him  queerly  a  moment,  and  then  agreed.  They 
met  outside  the  church  and  went  in  together,  as  strange  a 
pair  as  ever  the  meshes  of  that  ancient  net  which  gathers 
of  all  kinds  had  ever  drawn  towards  the  shore. 

Louise  led  him  to  a  central  seat,  and  found  the  place  for 
him  in  her  Praycr-Book.  The  building  was  full,  and  Peter 
glanced  about  him  curiously.  The  detachment  of  the  wor- 
shippers impressed  him  immensely.  There  did  not  appear 
to  be  any  proscribed  procedure  among  them,  and  even  when 
the  Mass  began  he  was  one  of  tiie  few  who  stood  and  knelt 
as  the  rubrics  of  the  service  directed.  Louise  made  no  at- 
tempt to  do  so.  For  the  most  part  she  knelt,  and  her  beads 
trickled  ceaselessly  through  her  fingers. 

Peter  was,  if  anything,  bored  by  the  Mass,  though  he 
would  not  admit  it  to  himself.  It  struck  him  as  being  a 
ratherly  poorly  played  performance.  True,  the  officiating 
ministers  moved  and  spoke  with  a  calm  regularity  which  im- 
pressed him,  familiar  as  he  was  with  clergymen  who  gave 
out  hymns  and  notices,  and  with  his  own  solicitude  at  home 
that  the  singing  should  go  well  or  that  the  choirboys  should 
not  fidget.  But  there  was  a  terrible  confusion  with  chairs, 
and  a  hideous  kind  of  clapper  that  was  used,  apparently,  to 
warn  the  boys  to  sit  and  rise.  The  service,  moreover,  as  a 
reverential  congregational  act  of  worship  such  as  he  was 
used  to  hope  for,  was  marred  by  innumerable  collections,  and 
especially  by  the  old  woman  who  came  round  even  during 
the  Sanctus  to  collect  the  rent  of  the  chairs  they  occupied, 
and  changed  money  or  announced  prices  with  all  the  zest  of 
the  market-place. 


222  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

But  at  the  close  there  was  a  procession  which  is  worth 
considerable  description.  Six  men  with  censers  of  silver 
lined  up  before  the  high  altar,  and  stood  there,  slowly  swing- 
ing the  fragrant  bowls  at  the  end  of  their  long  chains.  The 
music  died  down.  One  could  hear  the  rhythmical,  faint 
clangour  of  the  metal.  And  then,  intensely  sudden,  away 
in  the  west  gallery,  but  almost  as  if  from  the  battlements  of 
heaven,  pealed  out  silver  trumpets  in  a  fanfare.  The  cen- 
sers Hew  high  in  lime  with  it,  and  the  sweet  clouds  of  smoke, 
caught  by  the  coloured  sunlight  of  the  rich  painted  windows, 
unfolded  in  the  air  of  the  sanctuary.  Lights  moved  and 
danced,  and  the  space  before  the  altar  filled  with  the  white 
of  the  men  and  boys  who  should  move  in  the  procession. 
Again  and  again  those  trumpets  rang  out,  and  hardly  had 
the  last  echoes  died  away  than  the  organ  thundered  the 
Pangc  Lingua,  as  a  priest  in  cloth  of  gold  turned  from  the 
altar  with  the  glittering  monstrance  in  his  hand.  Even  from 
where  he  stood  Peter  could  see  the  white  centre  of  the  Host 
for  Whom  all  this  was  enacted.  Then  the  canopy,  borne  by 
four  French  laymen  in  frock-coats  and  white  gloves,  hid  It 
from  his  sight ;  and  the  high  gold  cross,  and  its  attendant 
tapers,  swung  round  a  great  buttress  into  view. 

Peter  had  never  heard  a  hymn  sung  so  before.  First  the 
organ  would  peal  alone ;  then  the  men's  voices  unaided  would 
take  up  the  refrain;  then  the  organ  again;  then  the  clear 
treble  of  the  boys;  then,  like  waves  breaking  on  immemorial 
clitTs,  organ,  trumpets,  boys,  men,  and  congregation  would 
thunder  out  together  till  the  blood  raced  in  his  veins  and 
his  eyes  were  too  dim  to  see. 

Down  the  central  aisle  at  last  they  came,  and  Peter  knelt 
with  the  rest.  He  saw  how  the  boys  went  before  throwing 
flowers ;  how  in  pairs,  as  the  censers  were  recharged,  the 
thurifers  walked  backward  before  the  three  beneath  the 
canopy,  of  whom  one,  white-haired  and  old,  bore  That  in 
the  monstrance  which  all  adored.  In  music  and  light  and 
colour  and  scent  the  Host  went  by,  as  It  had  gone  for  cen- 
turies in  that  ancient  place,  and  Peter  knew,  all  bewildered 


,  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  223 

as  he  was,  there,  by  the  side  of  the  girl,  that  a  new  vista 
was  opening  before  his  eyes. 

It  was  not  that  he  understood  as  yet,  or  scarcely  so.  In 
a  few  minutes  all  had  passed  them,  and  he  rose  and  turned 
to  see  the  end.  He  watched  while,  amid  the  splendour  of 
that  court,  with  singers  and  ministers  and  thurifers  ar- 
ranged before,  the  priest  ascended  to  enthrone  the  Sacrament 
in  the  place  prepared  for  It.  With  banks  of  flowers  behind, 
and  the  glitter  of  electric  as  well  as  of  candle  light,  the 
jewelled  rays  of  the  monstrance  gleaming  and  the  organ 
pealing  note  on  note  in  a  triumphant  ecstasy,  the  old,  bent 
priest  placed  That  he  carried  there,  and  sank  down  before  It. 
Then  all  sound  of  singing  and  of  movement  died  away,  and 
from  that  kneeling  crowd  one  lone,  thin  voice,  but  all  un- 
shaken, cried  to  Heaven  of  the  need  of  men.  It  was  a  short 
prayer  and  he  could  not  understand  it,  but  it  seemed  to  Peter 
to  voice  his  every  need,  and  to  go  on  and  on  till  it  reached 
the  Throne.  The  "Amen"  beat  gently  about  him,  and  he 
sank  his  face  in  his  hands. 

But  only  for  a  second.  The  next  he  was  lifted  to  his  feet. 
AH  that  had  gone  before  was  as  nothing  to  this  volume 
of  praise  that  shook,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  very  carven  roof 
above  and  swept  the  ancient  walls  in  waves  of  sound. 

Adorcvit/s  in  crternum  Sanctissimum  Sacrafnentum,  cried 
men  on  earth,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  him,  the  very  angels  of 
God. 

But  outside  he  collected  his  thoughts.  "Well,"  he  said. 
"I'm  glad  I've  been,  but  I  shan't  go  again." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Louise.  "It  was  most  beautiful. 
I  have  never  'eard  it  better." 

"Oh  yes,  it  was,"  said  Peter ;  "the  music  and  singing  were 
wonderful,  but — forgive  me  if  I  hurt  you,  but  I  can't  help 
saying  it — I  see  now  what  our  people  mean  when  they 
say  it  is  nothing  less  than  idolatry." 

"Idolatry?"  queried  Louise,  stumblingly  and  bewildered. 
"But  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  "the  Sacrament  is,  of  course,  a  holy 


224  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

thing,  a  very  holy  thing,  the  sign  and  symbol  of  Christ  Him- 
self, but  in  that  church  sign  and  symbol  were  forgotten; 
the  Sacrament  was  worshipped  as  if  it  were  very  God." 

"Oui,  oui,"  protested  Louise  vehemently,  "It  is.  It  is  le 
bon  Jcsu.  It  is  He  who  is  there.  He  passed  by  us  among 
them  all,  as  we  read  He  went  through  the  crowds  of 
Jerusalem  in  the  holy  Gospel,  And  there  was  not  one  He 
did  not  see,  eiiher,"  she  added,  with  a  little  break  in  her 
voice. 

Peter  all  but  stopped  in  the  road.  It  was  absurd  that  so 
simple  a  thing  should  have  seemed  to  him  new,  but  it  is  so 
with  us  all.  We  know  in  a  way,  but  we  do  not  understand, 
and  then  there  comes  the  moment  of  illumination — some- 
times. 

"Jesus  Himself!"  he  exclaimed,  and  broke  of?  abruptly. 
He  recalled  a  fragment  of  speech:  "Not  a  dead  man,  not 
a  man  on  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  of  God."  But  "He 
can't  be  found,"  I^ngton  had  said.  Was  it  so?  He  walked 
on  in  silence.  What  if  Louise,  with  her  pitiful  story  and 
her  caged,  earthy  life,  had  after  all  found  what  the  other 
had  missed?  He  pulled  himself  together;  it  was  too  good 
to  be  true. 

One  day  Louise  asked  him  abruptly  if  he  had  been  to  see 
the  girl  in  the  house  which  he  had  visited  with  Pcnnell.  He 
told  her  no,  aiid  she  said — they  had  met  by  chance  in  the 
town — "Well,  go  you  immediately,  then,  or  you  will  not 
see  her." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked.    "Is  she  ill — dying?" 

"Ah,  non,  not  dying,  but  she  is  ill.  They  will  take  her 
to  a  'ospital  to-morrow.  But  this  afternoon  she  will  be  in 
bed.     She  like  to  see  you.  I  think." 

Peter  left  her  and  made  for  the  house.  On  his  way  he 
thought  of  something,  and  took  a  turning  which  led  to  the 
market-place  of  flowers.  There,  at  a  stall,  he  bought  a  big 
bunch  of  roses  and  some  sprays  of  asparagus  fern,  and  set 
off  again.    Arriving,  he  found  the  door  shut.     It  was  a  di- 


.SIMON  CALLED  PETER  225 

lemma,  for  he  did  not  even  know  the  girl's  name,  but  he 
knocked. 

A  grim- faced  woman  opened  the  door  and  stared  at  him 
and  his  flowers.  "I  think  there  is  a  girl  sick  here,"  said 
Peter.     "May   I  see  her?" 

The  woman  stared  still  harder,  and  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  refuse  him  admission,  but  at  length  she  gave  way. 
"Entrez,"  she  said.  "Je  pense  que  vous  savez  le  chambre. 
Mais,  le  bouciuet — c'est  incroyable." 

Peter  went  up  the  stairs  and  knocked  at  the  door.  A 
voice  asked  who  was  there,  and  he  smiled  because  he  could 
not  say.  The  girl  did  not  know  his  name,  either.  "A 
friend,"  he  said:  "May  I  come  in?" 

A  note  of  curiosity  sounded  in  her  voice.  "Oui,  certaine- 
ment.  Entrez,"  she  called.  Peter  turned  the  handle  and 
entered  the  remembered  room. 

The  girl  was  sitting  up  in  bed  in  her  nightdress,  her  hair 
in  disorder,  and  the  room  felt  hot  and  stuffy  and  looked 
more  tawdry  than  ever.  She  exclaimed  at  the  sight  of  his 
Sowers.  He  deposited  the  big  bunch  by  the  side  of  her,  and 
seated  himself  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  She  had  been 
reading  a  book,  and  he  noticed  it  was  the  sort  of  book  that 
Langton  and  he  had  seen  so  prominently  in  the  book-shop 
at  Abbeville. 

If  he  had  expected  to  find  her  depressed  or  ashamed,  he 
was  entirely  mistaken.  "Oh,  you  darling,"  she  cried  in 
clipped  English.  "Kiss  me,  quick,  or  I  will  forget  the  orders 
of  the  doctor  and  jump  out  of  bed  and  catch  you.  Oh,  that 
you  should  bring  me  the  rose  so  beautiful!  Helas!  I  may 
not  wear  one  this  night  in  the  cafe!  See,  are  they  not  beau- 
tiful here?" 

She  pulled  her  nightdress  open  considerably  more  than  the 
average  evening  dress  is  cut  away  and  put  two  or  three 
of  the  blooms  on  her  white  bosom,  putting  her  head  on  one 
side  to  see  the  result.  "Oui,"  she  exclaimed,  "je  suis  ex- 
quise!    To-night  I  'ave  so  many  boys  I  do  not  know  what 


226  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

to  do !  But  I  forget :  I  cannot  go.  Je  suis  malade,  tres  ma- 
lade.    You  knew?    You  are  angry  with  me — is  it  not  so?" 

He  laughed ;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  "No,"  he  said; 
"why  should  I  be?     But  I  am  very  sorry." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "It  is  nothing,"  she  said. 
"C'est  la  guerre  for  me.  I  shall  not  be  long,  and  when  I 
come  out  you  will  come  to  see  me  again,  will  you  not?  And 
bring  me  more  flowers?  And  you  shall  not  let  me  'ave  the 
danger  any  more,  and  if  I  do  wrong  you  shall  smack  me  'ard. 
Per'aps  you  will  like  that.  In  the  books  men  like  it  much. 
Would  you  like  to  whip  me?"  she  demanded,  her  eyes 
sparkling  as  she  threw  herself  over  in  the  bed  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

Peter  got  up  and  moved  away  to  the  window,  "No,"  he 
said  shortly,  staring  out.  He  had  a  sensation  of  physical 
nausea,  and  it  was  as  much  as  he  could  do  to  restrain  him- 
self. He  realised,  suddenly,  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil's  final  handiwork.  Only 
his  new  knowledge  kept  him  quiet.  Even  she  might  be  little 
to  blame.  He  remembered  all  that  she  had  said  to  him  be- 
fore, and  suddenly  his  disgust  was  turned  into  overwhelming 
pity.  This  child  before  him — for  she  was  little  more  than 
a  child — had  bottomed  degradation.  For  the  temporary 
protection  and  favour  of  a  man  that  she  guessed  to  be  kind 
there  was  nothing  in  earth  or  in  hell  that  .she  would  not  do. 
And  in  her  already  were  the  seeds  of  the  disease  that  was 
all  but  certain  to  slay  her. 

He  turned  again  to  the  bed,  and  knelt  beside  it.  "Poor 
little  girl,"  he  said,  and  lightly  brushed  her  hair.  He  cer- 
tainly never  expected  the  result. 

She  pushed  him  from  her.  "Oh,  go,  go!"  she  cried. 
"Quick  go!  You  pretend,  but  you  do  not  love  me.  Why 
you  give  me  money,  the  flowers,  if  you  do  not  want  me? 
Go  quick.    Come  never  to  see  me  again !" 

Peter  did  the  only  thing  he  could  do ;  he  went.  "Good- 
bye," he  said  cheerfully  at  the  door.  "I  hope  you  will  be 
better  soon.     I  didn't  mean  to  be  a  beast  to  you.     Give  the 


•  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  227 

flowers  to  Lucienne  if  you  don't  want  them;  she  will  be 
able  to  wear  them  to-night.    Cheerio.    Good-bye-ee!" 

"Good-bye-ee !"  she  echoed  after  him.  And  he  closed  the 
door  on  her  life. 

In  front  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  he  met  Arnold,  returning 
from  the  club,  and  the  two  men  walked  off  together.  In  a 
moment  of  .impulse  he  related  the  whole  story  to  him. 
"Now,"  he  said,  "what  do  you  make  of  all  that?" 

Arnold  was  very  moved.  It  was  not  his  way  to  say  much, 
but  he  walked  on  silently  for  a  long  time.  Then  he  said : 
"The  Potter  makes  many  vessels,  but  never  one  needlessly. 
I  hold  on  to  that.    And  He  can  remake  the  broken  clay." 

"Are  you  sure?"  asked  Peter. 

"I  am,"  said  Arnold.  "It's  not  in  the  Westminster  Con- 
fession, nor  in  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  nor,  for  all  I 
know,  in  the  Penny  Catechism,  but  I  believe  it.  God  Al- 
mighty must  be  stronger  than  the  devil,  Graham." 

Peter  considered  this.  Then  he  shook  his  head.  "That 
won't  wash,  Arnold,"  he  said.  "If  God  is  stronger  than 
the  devil,  so  that  the  devil  is  never  ultimately  going  to  suc- 
ceed, I  can  see  no  use  in  letting  him  have  his  fling  at  all. 
And  I've  more  respect  for  the  devil  than  to  think  he'd  take 
it.  It's  childish  to  suppose  the  existence  of  two  euch  forces 
at  a  perpetual  game  of  cheat.  Either  there  is  no  devil  and 
there  is  no  hell — in  which  case  I  reckon  that  there  is  no 
heaven  either,  for  a  heaven  would  not  b:  a  heaven  if  it  were 
not  attained,  and  there  would  be  no  true  attainment  if  there 
were  no  possibility  of  failure — or  else  there  are  all  three. 
And  if  there  are  all  three,  the  devil  wins  out,  sometimes,  in 
the  end." 

"Then,  God  is  not  almighty?" 

Peter  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "If  I  breed  white  mice, 
I  don't  lessen  my  potential  power  if  I  choose  to  let  some 
loose  in  the  garden  to  see  if  the  cat  will  get  them.  Besides, 
in  the  end  I  could  annihilate  the  cat  if  I  wanted  to." 

"You  can't  think  of  God  so,"  cried  Arnold  sharply, 

"Can't  I?"  demanded  Peter.    "Well,  maybe  not,  Arnold; 


228  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

I  don't  know  that  I  can  think  of  Him  at  all.  But  I  can 
face  the  facts  of  life,  and  if  I'm  not  a  coward,  I  slian't  run 
away  from  them.  That's  what  I've  been  doing  these  days, 
and  that's  what  I  do  not  think  even  a  man  like  yourself  does 
fairly.  Vou  think,  I  take  it,  that  a  girl  like  that  is  damned 
utterly  by  all  the  canons  of  theology,  and  then,  forced  on 
by  pity  and  tenderness,  you  cry  out  against  them  all  tliat  she 
is  Ciod's  making  and  He  will  not  throw  her  away.  Is  that 
it?" 

Arnold  slightly  evaded  an  answer.  "How  can  you  save 
her,  Graham?"  he  asked. 

"I  can't.  I  don't  pretend  I  can.  I've  nothing  to  say  or 
do.  I  see  only  one  flicker  of  hoi>e,  and  that  lies  in  the  fact 
that  she  doesn't  understand  what  love  is.  Xo  shadcnv  of  the 
truth  has  ever  come  her  way.  If  now,  by  any  chance,  she 
could  see  for  one  instant — in  fact,  mind  you — the  face  o{ 
God.  ...  If  God  is  I-ove,"  he  added.  They  walked  a 
dozen  paces.    "And  even  then  she  might  refuse,"  he  said. 

"Whose  fault  would  that  be  ?"  demanded  the  older  man. 

Peter  answered  quickly.  "Whose  fault?  Why,  all  our 
faults — yours  and  mine,  and  the  fault  of  men  like  Pennell 
and  Donovan,  as  well  as  her  own.  too,  as  like  as  not.  We've 
all  hcli)ed  build  up  tiie  scheme  of  things  as  they  arc,  and  we 
arc  all  resixinsible.  We  curse  tiie  Germans  for  making  this 
damned  war,  and  it  is  the  war  that  has  done  most  to  make 
that  girl ;  but  they  didn't  make  it.  No  Kaiser  made  it,  and 
no  Nietzsche.  The  only  person  who  had  no  hand  in  it  that 
I  know  of  was  Jesus  Christ." 

"And  those  who  have  left  all  and  followed  Him,"  said 
Arnold  softly. 

"Precious  few,"  retorted  Peter. 

The  other  had  nothing  to  say. 

During  these  months  Peter  wrote  often  to  Hilda,  and  with 
increasing  frankness.  Her  replies  grew  shorter  as  his 
letters  grew  longer.  It  was  strange,  perhaps,  that  he  should 
continue  to  write,  but  the  explanation  was  not  far  to  seek. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  229 

It  was  by  her  that  he  gauged  the  extent  of  his  separation 
from  the  old  outlook,  and  in  her  that  he  still  clung,  desper- 
ately, as  it  were,  to  tlie  past.  Against  reason  he  elevated  hei 
into  a  kind  of  test  position,  and  if  her  replies  gave  him  nfc 
encouragement,  they  at  least  served  to  make  him  feel  the  in 
evitableness  and  the  reality  of  his  present  position.  It  wouk 
have  been  easy  to  get  into  the  swim  and  let  it  carry  hirri 
carelessly  oh — moderately  easy,  at  any  rate.  But  with 
Hilda  to  refer  to  he  was  forced  to  take  notice,  and  it  was 
she,  therefore,  that  hastened  the  end.  Just  after  Christmas, 
in  a  fit  of  temporary  boldness,  he  told  her  about  Louise,  so 
that  it  was  Louise  again  who  was  the  responsible  person 
during  these  months.  Hilda's  reply  was  delayed,  nor  had 
she  written  immediately.  When  he  got  it,  it  was  brief  but 
to  the  point.  She  did  not  doubt,  she  said,  but  that  what  he 
had  written  was  strictly  true,  and  she  did  not  doubt  his 
honour.  But  he  must  see  that  their  relationship  was  im- 
possible. She  couldn't  marry  the  man  who  appeared  actually 
to  like  the  company  of  such  a  woman,  nor  could  she  do  other 
than  feel  that  the  end  would  seem  to  him  as  plain  as  it  did 
I0  her,  and  that  he  would  leave  the  Church,  or  at  any  rate 
such  a  ministry  in  it  as  she  could  share.  She  had  told  her 
people  that  she  was  no  longer  engaged  in  order  that  he 
should  feel  free,  but  she  would  ever  remember  the  man 
as  she  had  known  him,  whom  she  had  loved,  and  whom  she 
loved  still. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  that  Peter  got  the  letter,  and  he 
was  just  setting  off  for  the  hospital.  When  he  had  read  it, 
he  put  on  his  cap  and  set  off  in  the  opposite  direction.  There 
was  a  walk  along  the  sea-wall  a  few  feet  wide,  where  the 
wind  blew  strongly  laden  with  the  Channel  breezes,  and  on 
the  other  side  was  a  waste  of  sand  and  stone.  In  some 
places  water  was  on  both  sides  of  the  wall,  and  here  one 
could  feel  more  alone  than  anywhere  else  in  the  town. 

Peter  set  off,  his  head  in  a  mad  whirl.  He  had  felt  that 
such  a  letter  would  come  for  weeks,  but  that  did  not,  in  a 
way,  lessen  the  blow  when  it  came.     He  had  known,  too. 


'230  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

that  Hilda  was  not  to  him  what  she  had  been,  but  he  had 
not  altogether  felt  that  she  never  could  be  so  again.  Now 
he  knew  that  he  had  gone  too  far  to  turn  back.  He  felt, 
he  could  not  help  it,  released  in  a  sense,  with  almost  a  sense 
of  exhilaration  behind  it,  for  the  unknown  lay  before.  And 
yet,  since  we  are  all  so  human,  he  was  intensely  unhappy  be- 
low all  this.  He  called  to  mind  little  scenes  and  bits  of 
scenes:  their  first  meeting;  the  sight  of  her  in  church  as  he 
preached ;  how  she  had  looked  at  the  dining-table  in  Park 
Lane ;  her  walk  as  she  came  to  meet  him  in  the  park.  And 
he  knew  well  enough  how  he  had  hurt  her,  and  the  thought 
maddened  him.  He  told  himself  that  God  was  a  devil  to 
treat  him  so ;  that  he  had  tried  to  follow  the  right ;  and  that 
the  way  had  led  him  down  towards  nothing  but  despair.  He 
was  no  nearer  answering  the  problems  that  beset  him.  He 
might  have  been  in  a  fool's  paradise  before,  but  what  was 
the  use  of  coming  out  to  see  the  devil  as  he  was  and  men 
and  women  as  they  were  if  he  could  see  no  more  than  that? 
The  throne  of  his  heart  was  empty,  and  tliere  was  none  to 
fill  it. 
Julie? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  sea-wall  ended  not  far  from  Donovan's  camp  of 
mud  and  cinders,  and  having  got  there,  Peter  thought 
he  would  go  on  and  get  a  cup  of  tea.  He  crossed  the  rail- 
way-lines, steered  through  a  great  American  rest  camp, 
crossed  the  canal,  and  entered  the  camp.  It  was  a  cheer- 
less place  in  winter,  and  the  day  was  drawing  in  early  with 
a  damp  fog.  A  great  French  airship  was  cruising  around 
overhead  and  dropping  down  towards  her  resting-place  in 
the  great  hangar  near  by.  She  looked  cold  and  ghostly  up 
aloft,  the  more  so  when  her  engines  were  shut  off,  and  Peter 
thought  how  chilly  her  crew  must  be.  He  had  a  hankering 
after  Donovan's  cheery  humour,  especially  as  he  had  not 
seen  him  for  some  time.  He  crossed  the  camp  and  made 
for  the  mess-room. 

It  was  lit  and  the  curtains  were  drawn,  and,  at  the  door, 
he  stopped  dead  at  the  sound  of  laughter.  Then  he  walked 
quickly  in,  "Caught  out,  by  Jove!"  said  Donovan's  voice. 
"You're  for  it,  Julie." 

A  merry  party  sat  round  the  stove,  taking  tea.  Julie  and 
Miss  Raynard  were  both  there,  with  Pennell  and  another 
man  from  Donovan's  camp.  Julie  wore  furs  and  had  plainly 
just  come  in,  for  her  cheeks  were  glowing  with  exercise. 
Pennell  was  sitting  next  Miss  Raynard,  but  Donovan,  on  a 
wooden  camp-seat,  just  beyond  where  Julie  sat  in  a  big 
cushioned  chair,  looked  out  at  him  from  almost  under 
Julie's  arm,  as  he  bent  forward.  The  other  man  was  stand- 
ing by  the  table,  teapot  in  hand. 

One  thinks  quickly  at  such  a  time,  and  Peter's  mind  raced. 
Something  of  the  old  envy  and  almost  fear  of  Donovan  that 
he  had  had  first  that  day  in  the  hospital  came  back  to  him. 
He  had  not  seen  the  two  togetlier  for  so  long  that  it  struck 
him  like  a  blow  to  hear  Donovan  call  her  by  her  Christian 


232  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

name.  It  flashed  across  his  mind  also  that  she  knew  that  !t 
was  his  day  at  the  hospital,  and  that  she  had  deliberately 
gone  out ;  but  it  dawned  on  him  equally  quickly  that  he  must 
hide  all  that. 

"I  should  jolly  well  think  so,"  he  said,  laughing.  "How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Raynard?  Donovan,  can  you  give  me  some 
tea?  I've  come  along  the  sea-wall,  and  picked  up  a  regular 
appetite.  Are  you  in  the  habit  of  taking  tea  here,  Julie?  I 
thought  nurses  were  not  allowed  in  camps." 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  but  he  missed  the  meaning  of 
her  glance.  "Rather,"  she  said ;  "I  come  here  for  tea  about 
once  a  week,  don't  I,  Jack?  No,  nurses  are  not  allowed  in 
camjis,  but  I  always  do  what's  not  allowed  as  far  as  possible. 
And  this  is  so  snug  and  out  of  the  way.  Mr.  Pennell,  you 
can  give  me  a  cigarette  now." 

The  other  man  offered  Peter  tea,  which  he  took.  "And 
how  did  the  festivities  go  off  at  Christmas?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  topping,"  said  Julie.  "Let  me  see,  you  were  at  the 
play,  so  I  needn't  talk  about  that ;  but  you  thougiit  it  good, 
didn't  you?" 

"Rippin'!"   said   Peter. 

"Well,"  said  Julie,  "then  there  was  the  dance  on  Boxing 
Night.  We  had  glorious  fun.  Jack,  here,  behaved  per- 
fectly abominably.  He  sat  out  about  half  the  dances,  and  I 
should  think  lie  kissed  every  pretty  girl  in  the  room.  Then 
we  went  down  to  the  nurses'  quarters  of  the  officers'  hos' 
pital  and  made  cocoa  of  all  things,  and  had  a  few  more 
dances  on  our  own.  They  made  me  dance  a  skirt  dance  on 
the  table,  and  as  I  had  enough  laces  on  this  time,  I  did. 
After  that— but  I  don't  think  I'll  tell  you  what  we  did  after 
that.     Why  didn't  you  come?" 

Peter  had  been  at  a  big  Boxing  Night  entertainment  for 
the  troops  in  the  Y.M.C.A.  Central  Hall,  but  he  did  not  say 
so.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "I  had  to  go  to  another  stunt,  but  I 
must  say  I  wish  I'd  been  at  yours.  May  I  have  another 
cup  of  tea?" 

The  third  man  gave  it  to  him  again,  and  then,  apologizing 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  233 

left  the  room.     Donovan  exchanged  glances  with  Julie,  and 
she  nodded. 

"I  say,  Graham,"  said  Donovan,  "I'll  tell  you  what  we've 
really  met  here  for  to-day.  We  were  going  to  fix  it  up  and 
then  ask  you ;  but  as  you've  dropped  in,  we'll  take  it  as  a 
dispensation  of  Providence  and  let  you  into  the  know.  What 
do  you  say  to  a  really  sporting  dinner  at  the  New  Year  ?" 

"Who's  to  be  asked?"  queried  Peter,  looking  round. 
"Fives  into  a  dinner  won't  go." 

"I  should  think  not,"  cried  Julie  gaily.  "Jack,  here,  is 
taking  me,  aren't  you?"  Donovan  said  "I  am"  with  great 
emphasis,  and  made  as  if  he  would  kiss  her,  and  she  pushed 
him  off,  laughing,  holding  her  muff  to  his  face.  Then  she 
went  on :  "You're  to  take  Tommy.  It  is  Tommy's  own 
particular  desire,  and  you  ought  to  feel  flattered.  She  says 
your  auras  blend,  whatever  that  may  be ;  and  as  to  Mr.  Pen- 
nell,  he's  got  a  girl  elsewhere  whom  he  will  ask.  Three 
and  three  make  six;  what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"Julie,"  said  Tommy  Raynard  composedly,  "you're  the 
most  fearful  liar  I've  ever  met.  But  I  trust  Captain  Graham 
knows  you  well  enough  by  now." 

"I  do,"  said  Peter,  but  a  trifle  grimly,  though  he  tried  not 
to  show  it — "I  do.  I  must  say  I'm  jolly  glad  Donovan  will 
be  responsible  for  you.  It's  going  to  be  'some'  evening,  I 
can  see,  and  what  you'll  do  if  you  get  excited  I  don't  know. 
Flirt  with  the  proprietor  and  have  his  wife  down  on  us,  as 
like  as  not.  In  which  event  it's  Donovan  who'll  have  to 
make  the  explanations.    But  come  on,  what  are  the  details?" 

"Tell  him,  Jack,"  said  Julie.  "He's  a  perfect  beast,  and 
I  shan't  speak  to  him  again." 

Peter  laughed.  "Pas  possible,"  he  said.  "But  come  on, 
Donovan ;  do  as  you're  told." 

"Well,  old  bird,"  said  Donovan,  "first  we  meet  here.  Got 
that?  It's  safer  than  any  other  camp,  and  we  don't  want  to 
meet  in  town.  We'll  have  tea  and  a  chat  and  then  clear  off. 
We'll  order  dinner  in  a  private  room  at  the  Grand,  and  it'll 
be  a  dinner  i\t  for  the  occasion.    They've  got  some  priceless 


234  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

sherry  there,  and  some  old  white  port.  Cognac  fine  cham- 
pagne for  the  liqueur,  and  what  date  do  you  think? — 1835 
as  I'm  alive.  I  saw  some  the  other  day,  and  spoke  about  it. 
That  gave  me  the  idea  of  the  dinner  really,  and  I  put  it  to 
the  old  horse  that  that  brandy  was  worthy  of  a  dinner  to 
introduce  it.  He  tumbled  at  once.  Veuve  Cliquot  as  the 
main  wine.     What  about  it?" 

Peter  balanced  himself  on  the  back  of  his  chair  and  blew 
out  cigarette-smoke. 

"What  time  are  you  ordering  the  ambulances?"  he  de- 
manded. 

"The  beds,  you  mean,"  cried  Julie,  entirely  forgetting  her 
last  words.  "That's  what  I  say.  /  shall  never  be  able  to 
walk  to  a  taxi  even." 

"I'll  carry  you,"  said  Donovan. 

"You  won't  be  able,  not  after  such  a  night ;  besides,  I 
don't  believe  you  could,  anyhow.  You're  getting  flabby  from 
lack  of  exercise." 

"Am  I  ?"  cried  Donovan.     "Let's  see,  anyway." 

He  darted  at  her,  slipped  an  arm  under  her  skirts  and 
another  under  her  arms,  and  lifted  her  bodily  from  the  chair. 

"Jack,"  she  shrieked,  "put  me  down !  Oh,  you  beast ! 
Tommy,  help,  help!  Peter,  make  him  put  me  down  and  I'll 
forgive  you  all  you've  said." 

Tommy  Raynard  sprang  up,  laughing,  and  ran  after  Dono' 
van,  who  could  not  escape  her.  She  threw  an  arm  round 
his  neck  and  bent  his  head  backwards.  "I  shall  drop  her," 
he  shouted.  Peter  leaped  forward,  and  Julie  landed  in  his 
arms. 

For  a  second  she  lay  still,  and  Peter  stared  down  at  her. 
With  her  quick  intuition  she  read  something  new  in  his  eyeSf 
and  instantly  looked  away,  scrambling  out  and  standing  there 
flushed  and  breathing  hard,  her  hands  at  her  hair.  *'You 
perfect  brute!"  she  said  to  Donovan,  laughing.  "I'll  pay 
you  out,  see  if  I  don't.    All  my  hair's  coming  down." 

"Capital!"  said  Donovan.  "I've  never  seen  it  down,  and 
I'd  love  to.    Here,  let  me  help." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  235 

He  darted  at  her ;  she  dodged  behind  Peter ;  he  adroitly 
put  out  a  foot,  and  Donovan  collapsed  into  the  big  chair. 

Julie  clapped  her  hands  and  rushed  at  him,  seizing  a 
cushion,  and  the  two  struggled  there  till  Tommy  Raynard 
pulled  Julie  forcibly  away. 

"Julie,"  she  said,  "this  is  a  positive  bear-garden.  You 
must  behave." 

"And  I,"  said  Pennell,  who  had  not  moved,  "would  like 
to  know  a  little  more  about  the  dinner."  He  spoke  so  dryly 
that  they  all  laughed,  and  order  was  restored.  Donovan, 
however,  refused  to  get  out  of  the  big  chair,  and  Julie  de- 
liberately sat  on  his  knee,  smiling  provocatively  at  him. 

Peter  felt  savage  and  bitter.  Like  a  man,  he  was  easily 
deceived,  and  he  had  been  taken  by  surprise  at  a  bad 
moment.  But  he  did  his  best  to  hide  it,  and  merely  threw 
any  remnants  of  caution  he  had  left  at  all  to  the  winds. 

"I  suppose  this  is  the  best  we  can  hope  for,  Captain 
Graham,"  said  Miss  Raynard  placidly.  "Perhaps  now 
you'll  give  us  your  views.  Captain  Donovan  never  gets 
beyond  the  drinks,  but  I  agree  with  Mr.  Pennell  we  want 
something  substantial." 

"I'm  blest  if  I  don't  think  you  all  confoundedly  ungrate- 
ful," said  Donovan.  "I  worked  that  fine  champagne  for 
you  beautifully.  Anyone  would  think  you  could  walk  in 
and  order  it  any  day.  If  we  get  it  at  all,  it'll  be  due  to  me 
and  my  blarney.  Not  but  what  it  does  deserve  a  good 
introduction,"  he  added.  "I  don't  suppose  there's  another 
bottle  in  the  town." 

Tommy  sighed.  "He's  off  again,  or  he  will  be,"  she  said. 
"Do  be  quick,  Captain  Graham." 

"Well,"  said  Peter.  "I  suggest,  first,  that  you  leave  the 
ordering  of  the  room  to  me,  and  the  decorations.  I've  most 
time,  and  I'd  like  to  choose  the  flowers.  And  the  smokes  and 
crackers.  And  I'll  worry  round  and  get  some  menu-cards, 
and  have  'em  printed  in  style.  And,  if  you  like,  I'll  inter- 
view the  chef  and  see  what  he  can  give  us.  It's  not  much 
use  our  discussing  details  without  him." 


236  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"  'A  Daniel  come  to  judgment,'  "  said  Pennell.  "Padre, 
I  didn't  know  you  had  it  in  you." 

"A  Solomon,"  said  Julie  mischievously. 

*'A  Peter  Graham,"  said  Miss  Raynard.  "I  always  knew 
he  had  more  sense  in  his  little  finger  than  all  the  rest  of 
you  in  your  heads." 

Donovan  sighed  from  the  depths  of  the  chair.  "Graham," 
he  said,  "for  Heaven's  sake  remember  those  .  .  ." 

Julie  clapped  her  hand  over  his  mouth.  He  kissed  it.  She 
withdrew  it  with  a  scream. 

".  .  .  Drinks,"  finished  Donovan.  "The  chef  must  sug- 
gest accordin'." 

"Well,"  .said  Pennell.  "I  reckon  that's  settled  satisfac- 
torily. I'll  get  out  my  invitation.  In  fact,  I  think,  if  I  may 
be  excused,  I'll  go  and  do  it  now."  He  got  up  and  reached 
for  his  cap. 

They  all  laughed.  "We'll  see  to  it  that  there's  mistletoe," 
cried  Julie. 

"Ah,  thanks!"  said  Pennell;  "that  will  be  jolly,  though 
some  people  I  know  seem  to  get  on  well  enough  without  it. 
So  long.     See  you  later,  padre." 

He  avoided  Julie's  flung  cushion  and  stepped  through  the 
door.  Miss  Raynard  got  up.  "We  ought  to  get  a  move  on 
too,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Julie. 

"Oh,  not  yet."  protested  Donovan.  "Let's  have  some 
bridge.     There  are  just  four  of  us." 

"You  can  never  have  played  bridge  with  Julie,  Captain 
Donovan,"  said  Miss  Raynard.  "She  usually  flings  the 
cards  at  you  half  way  through  the  rubber.  And  she  never 
counts.  The  other  night  she  played  a  diamond  instead  of 
a  heart,  when  hearts  were  trumps,  and  she  had  the  last  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  tricks  in  her  hand." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  Donovan,  "women  are  like  that.  They 
often  mistake  diamonds  for  hearts." 

"Jack,"  said  Julie,  "you're  really  clever.  How  do  you 
do  it  ?    I  had  no  idea.    Does  it  hurt  ?    But  don't  do  it  again , 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  237 

you  might  break  something.  Peter,  you've  been  praised 
this  evening,  but  you'd  never  think  of  that." 

"He  would  not,"  said  Miss  Raynard.  .  .  .  "Come  on, 
Julie." 

Peter  hesitated  a  second.  Then  he  said:  "You're  going 
my  way.     May  I  see  you  home?" 

"Thanks,"  said  Miss  Raynard,  and  they  all  made  a  move. 

"It's  deuced  dark,"  said  Donovan.  "Here,  let  me.  I'll  go 
first  with  a  candle  so  that  you  shan't  miss  the  duck-boards." 

He  passed  out.  Tommy  Raynard  after  him.  Peter  stood 
back  to  let  Julie  pass,  and  as  she  did  so  she  said:  "You're 
very  glum  and  very  polite  to-night,  Solomon.  What's  the 
matter?' 

"Am  I?"  said  Peter;  "I  didn't  know  it.  And  in  any  case 
Donovan  is  all  right,  isn't  he?" 

He  could  have  bitten  his  tongue  out  the  next  minute.  She 
looked  at  him  and  then  began  to  laugh  silently,  and,  still 
laughing,  went  out  before  him.  Peter  followed  miserably. 
At  the  gate  Donovan  said  good-bye,  and  the  three  set  out 
for  the  hospital.  Miss  Raynard  walked  between  Peter  and 
Julie,  and  did  most  of  the  talking,  but  the  ground  was  rough 
and  the  path  narrow,  and  it  was  not  until  diey  got  on  to  the 
dock  road  that  much  could  be  said. 

"This  is  the  best  Christmas  I've  ever  had,"  declared  Miss 
Raynard.  "I'm  feeling  positively  done  up.  There  was 
something  on  every  afternoon  and  evening  last  week,  and 
then  Julie  sits  on  my  bed  till  daybreak,  more  or  less,  and 
smokes  cigarettes.  We've  a  bottle  of  benedictine,  too,  and 
it  always  goes  to  her  head.  The  other  night  she  did  a  Salome 
dance  on  the  strengtli  of  it." 

"It  was  really  fine,"  said  Julie.  "You  ought  to  have 
seen  me." 

"Till  the  towel  slipped  oflF :  not  then,  I  hope,"  said  Tommy 
dryly. 

"I  don't  suppose  he'd  have  minded — would  you,  Peter?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Peter  cheerfully — "on  the  contrary." 


238  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"I  don't  know  if  you  two  are  aware  that  you  are  positively 
indecent,"  said  Tommy.  "Let's  change  the  subject.  What's 
your  news,  Captain  Graham  ?" 

Peter  smiled  in  the  dark  to  himself.  "Well,"  he  said,  "not 
much,  but  I'm  hoping  for  leave  soon.  I've  pushed  in  for  it, 
and  our  Adjutant  told  me  this  morning  he  thought  it  would 
go  through." 

"Lucky  man!  I've  got  to  wait  three  months.  But  yours 
ought  to  be  about  now,  Julie." 

"I  think  it  ought,"  said  Julie  shortly.  Then :  "What  about 
the  menu-cards,  Peter?  Would  you  like  me  to  help  you 
choose  them  ?" 

"Would  you?"  said  he  eagerly.     "To-morrow?" 

"I'm  on  duty  at  five  o'clock,  but  I  can  get  oil  for  an  hour 
in  the  afternoon.    Could  you  come.  Tommy?" 

"No.  Sorry;  but  I  must  write  letters.  I  haven't  written 
one  for  ages." 

"Nor  have  I,"  said  Julie,  "but  I  don't  mean  to.  I  hate 
letters.    Well,  what  about  it,  Peter?" 

"I  should  think  we  had  better  try  that  stationer's  in  thr 
Rue  Thiers,"  he  said.  "If  that  wtiti't  do,  the  Nouvelles 
Galleries  might.     What  do  you  think?" 

"Let's  try  the  Galleries  first.  Wc  could  meet  there.  Say 
at  three,  eh?     I  want  to  get  some  baby-ribbon,  too." 

Tommy  sighed  audibly.    "She's  off  again,"  she  said. 

"Thank  God,  here's  the  hospital !  Good-night,  Captain 
Graham.     You  mustn't  cross  the  Rubicon  to-night." 

"You  oughtn't  to  swear  before  him,"  said  Julie  in  mock 
severity.     "And  what  in  the  world  is  the  Rubicon?" 

"Materially,  to-night,  it's  the  railway-line  between  his 
camp  and  the  hos{)ital,"  said  Tommy  Raynard.  "What  else 
it  is  I'll  leave  him  to  decide." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Peter  saw  a  quizzical  look  on 
her  face.  He  turned  rather  hopelessly  to  Julie.  "I  say," 
he  said,  "didn't  you  know  it  was  my  afternoon  at  the 
hospital  ?" 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  239 

"Yes,"  said  Julie,  "and  I  knew  you  didn't  come.  At  least, 
I  couldn't  see  you  in  any  of  the  wards." 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  thought  you'd  been  out  all  the 
afternoon.     I'm  sorry.     I  am  a  damned  fool,  Julie!" 

She  laughed  in  the  darkness.  "I've  known  worse,  Peter," 
she  said,  and  was  gone. 

Next  day  Julie  was  in  her  most  provocative  of  moods. 
Peter,  eminently  respectable  in  his  best  tunic,  waited  ten 
minutes  for  her  outside  the  Nouvelles  Galleries,  and,  like 
most  men  in  his  condition,  considered  that  she  was  never 
coming,  and  that  he  was  the  cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 
Wlien  she  did  come,  she  was  not  apparently  aware  that  she 
was  late.  She  ran  her  eyes  over  him,  and  gave  a  pretended 
gasp  of  surprise.  "You're  looking  wonderful.  Padre 
Graham,"  she  said.  "Really,  you're  hard  to  live  up  to. 
I  never  know  what  to  expect  or  how  to  behave.  Those  black 
buttons  terrorise  me.     Come  on." 

She  insisted  on  getting  her  ribbon  first,  and  turned  over 
everything  there  was  to  be  seen  at  that  counter.  The  French 
girl  who  served  them  was  highly  amused. 

"Isn't  that  chic?"  Julie  demanded  of  Peter,  holding  up  a 
lacy  camisole  and  deliberately  putting  it  to  her  shoulders. 
"Wouldn't  you  love  to  see  me  in  it?" 

"I  would,"  he  said,  without  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 

"Well,  you  never  will,  of  course,"  she  said.  "I  shall  never 
marry  or  be  given  in  marriage,  and  in  any  case,  in  that 
uniform,  you've  nothing  whatever  to  hope  for.  .  .  Yes,  I'll 
take  that  ribbon,  thank  you,  ma'm'selle.  Peter,  I  suppose 
you  can't  carry  it  for  me.  Your  pocket?  Not  a  bad  idea; 
but  let  me  put  it  in." 

Peter  stood  while  she  undid  his  breast-pocket  and  stuffed 
it  inside. 

"Anything  more?"  demanded  the  French  saleswoman 
interrogatively. 

"Not  to-day,  merci,"  said  Julie.     "You  see,  Peter,  you 


240  SIMOxN  CALLED  PETER 

couldn't  carry  undies  for  me,  even  in  your  pocket ;  it  wouldn't 
be  respectable.  Do  come  on.  You  will  keep  us  here  the 
entire  day." 

They  passed  the  smoking  department,  and  she  stopped 
suddenly.  'Teter,"  she  said,  "I'm  going  to  give  you  a  pipe. 
Those  chocolates  you  gave  me  at  Christmas  were  too  de- 
licious for  anything.  What  sort  do  you  like?  A  briar?  Let 
me  see  if  it  blows  nicely."  She  put  it  to  her  lips.  "I  swear 
I  shall  start  a  pipe  soon,  in  my  old  age.  By  the  way,  I  don't 
believe  you  have  any  idea  how  old  I  am — have  you,  Peter? 
Guess." 

She  was  quick  to  note  the  return  to  his  old  manner.  He 
was  nervous  with  her,  not  sure  of  himself,  and  so  not  sure 
of  her  either.  And  she  traded  on  it.  At  the  stationery 
department  she  made  eyes  at  a  couple  of  officers,  and 
insisted  on  examining  Kirschncr  picture-postcards,  some  of 
which  she  would  not  show  him.  "Vou  can't  possibly  be  seen 
looking  at  them  with  those  badges  up,"  she  whispered.  "Dear 
mc,  if  only  Donovan  were  here!  He  wouldn't  mind,  and  I 
don't  know  which  packet  I  like  best.  These  have  got  very 
little  on.  Peter — very  little,  but  I'm  not  sure  that  they  are 
not  more  decent  than  those.  It's  much  worse  than  a  camisole, 
you  know.  .  .  ." 

Peter  was  horribly  cortscious  that  the  men  were  smiling  at 
her.  "Julie,"  he  said  desperately,  "do  be  sensible,  just  for 
a  minute.     We  must  get  those  menu-cards." 

"Well,  you  go  and  find  the  books,"  she  said  merrily.  "I 
told  you  you  ought  not  to  watch  me  buy  these.  I'll  take 
the  best  care  of  myself,"  and  she  looked  past  him  towards 
the  men. 

Peter  gave  it  up.  "Julie,"  he  said  savagely,  "if  you  make 
eyes  any  more,  I'll  kiss  you  here  and  now — I  swear  I  will." 

Julie  laughed  her  little  nearly  silent  chuckle,  and  looked 
at  him.  "I  believe  you  would,  Peter,"  she  said,  "and  I 
certainly  mustn't  risk  that.  I'll  be  good.  Are  those  the 
books?    Fetch  me  a  chair,  then,  and  I'll  look  through  them." 

He  bent  over  her  as  she  turned  the  leaves.     She  wore  a 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  241 

little  toque  that  had  some  relation  to  a  nurse's  uniform,  but 
was  distinctive  of  Julie.  Her  fringe  of  brown  hair  lay  along 
her  forehead,  and  the  thick  masses  of  the  rest  of  it  tempted 
him  almost  beyond  endurance.  "How  will  that  do?"  she 
demanded,  her  eyes  dancing.  "Oh,  do  look  at  the  cards  and 
not  at  me!  You're  a  terrible  person  to  bring  shopping, 
Peter!" 

The  card  selected,  she  had  a  bright  idea.  "What  about 
candle-shades?"  she  queried.  "We  can't  trust  the  hotel.  I 
want  some  with  violets  on  them :  I  love  violets." 

"Do  you?"  he  said  eagerly.  'That's  just  what  I  wanted 
to  know.    Yes,  it's  a  fine  idea ;  let's  go  and  get  them." 

Outside,  she  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  looked  at  the  little 
gold  wrist-watch  on  her  arm.  "We've  time,"  she  said. 
"Take  me  to  tea." 

"You  must  know  it's  not  possible,"  he  said,  "They're 
enforcing  the  order,  and  one  can't  get  tea  anywhere." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him.  "I  think,  Peter,"  she  said, 
"you'll  never  learn  the  ropes.     Follow  me." 

Not  literally,  but  metaphorically,  he  followed  her.  She 
led  him  to  a  big  confectioner's  with  two  doors  and  several 
windows,  in  each  of  which  was  a  big  notice  of  the  new  law 
forbidding  teas  or  the  purchase  of  chocolates.  Inside,  she 
walked  up  to  a  girl  who  was  standing  by  a  counter,  and  who 
greeted  her  with  a  smile.  "It  is  cold  outside,"  she  said. 
"May  I  have  a  warm  by  the  fire?" 

"Certainly,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  girl.  "And  monsieur 
«lso.    Will  it  please  you  to  come  round  here?" 

They  went  behind  the  counter  and  in  at  a  little  door. 
There  was  a  fire  in  the  grate  of  the  small  kitchen,  and  a  kettle 
singing  on  the  hob.  Julie  sat  down  on  a  chair  at  the  wooden 
table  and  looked  round  with  satisfaction. 

"Why,  it's  all  ready  for  us!"  she  exclaimed.  "Chocolate 
cakes,  Suzanne,  please,  and  hot  buttered  scones.  I'll  butter 
them,  if  you  bring  the  scones." 

They  came,  and  she  went  to  the  fire,  splitting  them  open 
and  spreading  the  butter  lavishly.    "I  love  France,"  she  said. 


242  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"All  laws  are  made  to  be  broken,  which  is  all  that  laws  are 
good  for,  don't  you  think?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  deliberately,  glancing  at  the  dosed  door, 
and  bent  and  kissed  her  neck.  She  looked  up  imperiously. 
"Again,"  she  said;  and  he  kissed  her  on  the  lips.  At  that 
she  jumped  up  with  a  quick  return  to  the  old  manner: 
"Peter !  For  a  parson  you  are  the  outside  edge.  Go  and 
sit  down  over  there  and  recollect  yourself.  To  begin  with, 
if  we're  found  here,  there'll  be  a  row,  and  if  you're  caught 
kissing  me,  who  knows  what  will  happen?" 

He  obeyed  gaily.  "Chaff  away,  Julie,"  he  said,  "but  I 
shan't  wear  black  buttons  at  the  dinner.  You'll  have  to  look 
out  that  night." 

She  put  the  scones  on  the  table,  and  sat  down.  "And  if 
I  don't  ?"  she  queried.  Peter  said  nothing.  He  had  suddenly 
thought  of  something.  He  looked  at  her,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  would  not  meet  his  eyes. 

It  was  thought  better  on  New  Year's  Eve  that  they  should 
go  separately  to  Donovan's  camp,  so  Peter  and  Pennell  set 
out  for  it  alone.  By  the  canal  Pennell  left  his  friend  to  go 
and  meet  Elsie  Harding,  the  third  girl.  Peter  went  on  alone, 
and  found  Donovan,  giving  s(ime  orders  in  the  camp.  He 
stood  with  him  till  they  saw  the  other  four,  who  had  met 
on  the  tow-path,  coming  in  together. 

"He's  a  dark  horse,"  called  Julie,  almost  before  they  had 
come  up,  "and  so's  she.  Fancy  Elsie  being  the  third !  I 
didn't  know  they  knew  each  other.  We're  a  Colonial  party 
to-night,  Jack — all  except  Peter,  that  is,  for  Mr.  Pennell  is 
more  Canadian  than  English.  We'll  teach  them.  By  the 
way,  I  can't  go  on  saying  'Mr.  Pennell'  all  night.  What 
shall  I  call  him,  Elsie?" 

Peter  saw  that  the  newcomer  wore  an  Australian  brooch, 
and  caught  the  unmistakable  but  charming  accent  in  her 
reply.  "He's  'Trevor'  to  me,  and  he  can  be  to  you,  if  you 
like,  Julie,"  she  said. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  243 

Tommy  sighed  audibly.  "They're  beginning  early,"  she 
said;  "but  I  suppose  the  rest  of  us  had  better  follow  the 
general  example — eh,  Peter?" 

In  the  anteroom,  where  tea  was  ready,  Peter  saw  that 
Elsie  was  likely  to  play  Julie  a  good  second.  She  was  tall, 
taller  than  Pennell  himself,  and  dark  skinned,  with  black 
hair  and  full  red  lips,  and  rather  bigly  built.  It  appeared 
that  her  great  gift  was  a  set  of  double  joints  that  allowed 
her  to  play  the  contortionist  with  great  effect.  "You  should 
just  see  her  in  tights,"  said  Julie.  "Trevor,  why  didn't  you 
say  whom  you  were  bringing,  and  I'd  have  made  her  put 
them  on.  Then  we  could  have  had  an  exhibition,  but,  as  it 
is,  I  suppose  we  can't." 

"I  didn't  know  you  knew  her,"  he  said. 

"You  never  have  time  to  talk  of  other  people  when  youVe 
together,  I  suppose,"  she  retorted.  "Well,  I've  no  doubt  you 
make  the  most  of  your  opportunities,  and  you're  very  wise. 
But  to-night  you've  got  to  behave,  more  or  less — at  least, 
till  after  the  coffee.  Otherwise  all  our  preparations  will  be 
wasted — won't  they,  Peter?" 

After  tea  they  set  off  together  for  the  tram-car  that  ran 
into  town.  It  was  Julie  who  had  decided  this.  She  said 
she  liked  to  see  the  people,  and  the  cars  were  so  perfectly 
absurd,  which  was  true.  Also,  that  it  would  be  too  early  to 
enjoy  taxis,  the  which  was  very  like  her.  So  they  walked  in 
a  body  to  the  terminus,  where  a  crowd  of  Tommies  and 
French  workmen  and  factory  girls  were  waiting.  The  night 
was  cloudy  and  a  little  damp,  but  it  had  the  effect  of  adding 
mystery  to  the  otherwise  ugly  street,  and  to  the  great  ships 
under  repair  in  the  dockyards  close  by.  The  lights  of  the 
tram  appeared  at  length  round  the  corner,  an  engine-car  and 
two  trailers.  There  was  a  bolt  for  them.  They  were  packed 
on  the  steps,  and  the  men  had  to  use  elbows  freely  to  get  the 
whole  party  in,  but  the  soldiers  and  the  workmen  were  in 
excellent  humour,  and  the  French  girls  openly  admiring  of 
Julie.    In  the  result,  then,  they  were  all  hunched  up  in  the 


244  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

end  of  a  "first"  compartment,  and  Peter  found  himself  with 
his  back  to  the  glass  door,  Julie  on  his  right,  Elsie  on  his  left. 

"Every  rib  I  have  is  broken,"  said   the  former, 

"The  natural  or  tlie  artificial  ?"  demanded  Elsie.  "Per- 
Bonaliy,  I  think  I  broke  a  few  of  other  people's." 

They  started,  and  the  rattling  of  the  ramshackle  cars 
Stopped  conversation.  Julie  drew  Peter's  attention  to  a 
little  scene  on  the  platform  outside,  and  he  looked  through 
the  glass  to  .see  a  big  French  linesman  with  his  girl.  The 
man  had  got  her  into  a  corner,  and  then,  coolly  putting  his 
arms  out  on  either  side  to  the  hand-rail  and  to  the  knob  of 
their  door,  he  was  facing  his  amorata,  indifTerent  to  the 
wo:. J.  Peter  looked  at  the  girl's  coarse  face.  She  was  a 
factory  hand,  bareheaded,  and  her  sleeves  were  rolled  up 
at  her  elbows.  For  all  that,  she  was  neat,  as  a  Frenchwoman 
invariably  is.  The  girl  caught  his  gaze,  and  smiled.  The 
linesman  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  and  glanced 
friendlily  at  Peter  too.  Then  he  saw  Julie.  A  look  of  ad- 
miration came  over  his  face,  and  he  put  one  hand  comically  to 
his  heart.  The  girl  slapped  it  in  a  pretended  fury,  and  Julie 
doubled  up  with  laughter  in  her  corner.  Peter  bent  over  her. 
"  'Everybody's  doing  it,  doing  it,  doing  it,' "  he  quoted 
merrily. 

The  tram  stopped  in  the  square  before  the  Hotel  de  Ville. 
There  was  a  great  air  of  festivity  and  bustle  about  as  they 
stepped  out,  for  the  New  Year  is  a  great  time  in  France. 
Lights  twinkled  in  the  misty  dark ;  taxis  sprinted  across  the 
open  spaces;  and  people  greeted  each  other  gaily  by  the 
brightly-lit  shops.  Somehow  or  another  the  whole  thing 
went  to  Peter's  head  like  wine.  The  world  was  good  and 
merry,  he  thought  exultantly,  and  he,  after  all,  a  citizen  of 
it.  He  caught  Julie's  arm.  "Come  on,"  he  called  to  the 
others.  "I  know  the  way."  And  to  her:  "Isn't  it  topping? 
Do  you  feel  gloriously  exhilarated?  I  don't  know  why, 
Julie,  but  I  could  do  anything  to-night." 

She  slipped  her  fingers  down  into  his  hand.  "I'm  so 
glad,"  she  said.     "So  could  I." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  245 

They  whirled  across  the  road,  the  others  after  them,  round 
the  little  park  in  the  centre  of  the  square,  and  down  an 
empty  side-street.  Peter  had  reconnoitred  all  approaches, 
he  said,  and  this  was  the  best  way.  Begging  him  to  give 
her  time  to  breathe.  Tommy  came  along  with  Donovan,  and 
it  suddenly  struck  Peter  that  the  latter  seemed  happy  enough. 
He  pressed  Julie's  hand :  "Donovan's  dropped  into  step  with 
Tommy  very  easily,"  he  said.     "Do  you  mind?" 

She  laughed  happily  and  glanced  back.  "You're  as  blind 
as  a  bat,  Peter,  when  all's  said  and  done,"  she  said ;  "but  oh, 
my  dear,  I  can't  play  with  you  to-night.  There's  only  one 
person  I  want  to  walk  with  Peter." 

Peter  all  but  shouted.  He  drew  her  to  him,  and  for  onct 
Julie  was  honestly  alarmed. 

"Not  now,  you  mad  boy !"  she  exclaimed,  but  her  eyes 
were  enough  for  him. 

"All  right,"  he  laughed  at  her;  "wait  a  bit.  There's 
time  yet." 

In  the  little  entrance-hall  the  maitre  d'hotcl  greeted  them. 
They  were  the  party  of  importance  that  night.  He  ushered 
'.hem  upstairs  and  opened  a  door.  The  mademoiselles  might 
make  the  toilette  there.    Another  door :  they  would  eat  here. 

The  men  deposited  their  caps  and  sticks  and  coats  on  pegs 
outside,  and  the  girls,  who  tiad  had  to  come  in  uniform  also, 
were  ready  as  soon  as  tliey.  They  went  in  together.  Elsie 
gave  a  little  whistle  of  surprise. 

Peter  had  certainly  done  well.  Holly  and  mistletoe  were 
round  the  walls,  and  a  big  bunch  of  the  latter  was  placed  in 
such  a  way  that  it  would  hang  over  the  party  as  they  sat 
afterwards  by  the  fire.  In  the  centre  a  silver  bowl  held 
glorious  roses,  white  and  red,  and  at  each  girl's  place  was 
a  bunch  of  Parma  violets  and  a  few  sprigs  of  flowering 
mimosa.  Bon-bons  were  spread  over  the  white  cloth.  Julie's 
candle-shades  looked  perfect,  and  so  did  the  menu-cards. 

"I  trust  that  monsieur  is  satisfied,"  said  the  viaitrc  d'hotel, 
bowing  towards  the  man  who  had  had  the  dealings  with 
him.    He  got  his  answer,  but  not  from  Peter,  and,  being  a 


246  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Frenchman,  smiled,  bowed  again,  and  discreetly  left  the 
room;  for  Elsie,  turning  to  Peter  cried:  "Did  you  do  it — 
even  the  wattle?"  and  kissed  him  heartily.  He  kissed  her 
back,  and  caught  hold  of  Julie.  "Tit  for  tat,"  he  said  to  her 
under  his  breath,  holding  her  arms;  "do  you  remember  our 
first  taxi  ?"  Then,  louder :  "Julie  is  responsible  for  most  of 
it,"  and  he  kissed  her  too. 

They  sorted  themselves  out  at  last,  and  the  dinner,  that 
two  of  them  at  least  who  were  there  that  night  were  never 
to  forget,  began.  They  were  uproariously  merry,  and  the 
two  girls  who  waited  came  and  went  wreathed  in  smiles. 

With  the  champagne  came  a  discussion  over  the  cork. 
"Give  it  to  me,"  cried  Julie ;  "I  want  to  wear  it  for  luck." 

"So  do  I,"  said  Elsie;  "we  must  toss  for  it." 

Julie  agreed,  and  they  spun  a  coin  solemnly. 

"It's  mine,"  cried  Elsie,  and  pounced  for  it. 

Julie  snatched  it  away.  "No,  you  don't,"  she  said.  "A 
man  must  put  it  in,  or  there's  no  luck  in  it.  Here  you  are, 
Trevor." 

PenncU  took  it,  laughing,  and  pushed  back  his  chair.  The 
others  stood  up  and  and  craned  over  to  see.  Elsie  drew  up 
her  skirt  and  Trevor  pushed  it  down  her  stocking  amid 
screams  of  laughter,  and  the  rattle  of  chaff. 

"No  higher  or  I  faint,"  said  Tommy. 

Trevor  stood  up,  a  little  flushed.  "Here,"  said  Peter,  filling 
his  glass  with  what  was  left  in  the  bottle,  "drink  this.  Pen. 
You  sure  want  it." 

"It's  your  turn  next,"  said  Trevor,  "and,  by  Jove,  the 
bottle's  empty !     Encore  le  vin,"  he  called. 

"Good  idea.  It's  Julie's  next  cork,  and  Graham's  the  man 
to  do  it,"  said  Jack  Donovan.  "And  then  it'll  be  your  turn, 
Tommy." 

"And  yours,"  she  said,  glancing  at  him. 

"Bet  you  won't  dare,"  said  Elsie. 

"Who  won't?"  retorted  Julie. 

"Peter,  of  course." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  247 

"My  dear,  you  don't  know  Peter.  Here  you  are,  Peter; 
let's  show  them." 

She  tossed  the  cork  to  him  and  stood  up  coolly,  put  up  her 
foot  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  lifted  her  skirt.  Peter 
pushed  the  cork  into  its  traditional  place  amid  cheers,  but 
he  hardly  heard.  His  fingers  had  touched  her  skin,  and  he 
had  seen  the  look  in  her  eyes.  No  wine  could  have  intoxi- 
cated him  so.     He  raised  his  glass.     "Toasts !"  he  shouted. 

They  took  him  up  and  everyone  rose  to  their  feet. 

"'Here's  to  all  those  that  I  love; 
Here's  to  all  those  that  love  me; 
Here's  to  all  those  that  love  them  that  love  those 
•     That  love  those  that  love  them  that  love  me  I' " 

he  chanted. 

"Julie's  turn,"  cried  Elsie. 

"No,"  she  said ;  "they  know  all  my  toasts." 

"Not  all,"  said  Donovan ;  "there  was  one  you  never  fin- 
ished— something  about  Blighty." 

"Rhymes  with  nighty,"  put  in  Tommy  coolly ;  "don't  you 
remember,  Julie?" 

It  seemed  to  Peter  that  he  and  Julie  stood  there  looking 
at  each  other  for  seconds,  but  probably  no  one  but  Tommy 
noticed.  "Take  it  as  read,"  cried  Peter  boisterously,  and 
emptied  his  glass.  His  example  was  infectious,  and  they  all 
followed  suit,  but  Donovan  remarked  across  the  table  to  him : 

"You  spoiled  a  humorous  situation,  old  dear." 

Dinner  over,  they  pushed  the  table  against  the  wall,  and 
pulled  chairs  round  the  fire.  Dessert,  crackers,  chocolates 
and  cigarettes  were  piled  on  a  small  table,  and  the  famous 
liqueur  came  in  with  the  coffee.  They  filled  the  little  glasses. 
"This  is  a  great  occasion,"  said  Donovan;  "let's  celebrate  it 
properly.    Julie,  give  us  a  dance  first." 

She  sprang  up  at  once.  "Right-o,"  she  said.  "Clear  the 
table." 

They  pushed  everything  to  one  side,  and  Peter  held  out 


248  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

his  hand.  Just  touching  his  fingers,  she  leaped  up,  and  next 
minute  circled  there  in  a  whirl  of  skirts.  A  piano  stood  in 
a  corner  of  the  room,  and  Elsie  ran  to  it.  Looking  over  her 
shoulder,  she  caught  the  pace,  and  the  notes  rang  out  merrily. 

Julie  was  the  very  spirit  of  devilment  and  fun.  So  light 
that  she  seemed  hardly  to  toucii  the  table,  she  danced  as  if 
born  to  it.  It  was  such  an  incarnation  of  grace  and  music 
that  a  little  silence  fell  on  them  all.  To  Peter  she  appeared 
to  dance  to  him.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes  off  her;  he 
cared  nothing  what  others  thought  or  saw.  There  was  a 
mist  before  him  and  thunder  in  his  ears.  He  saw  only  her 
flushed,  childlike  face  and  sparkling  brown  eyes,  and  a  wave 
of  her  loosened  hair  that  slipped  across  them.  .  .  . 

The  music  ceased.  Panting  for  breath,  she  leaped  down 
amid  a  chorus  of  "Bravo's!"  and  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
liqueur-glass.  Peter  put  it  in  her  fingers,  and  he  was 
trembling  more  than  she,  and  spilt  a  little  of  it.  "Well, 
here's  the  best,"  she  cried,  and  raised  the  glass.  Then,  with 
a  gay  laugh,  she  put  her  moistened  fingers  to  his  mouth  and 
he  kissed  them,  the  spirit  on  his  lips. 

And  now  Elsie  must  show  herself  off.  They  sat  down  to 
watch  her,  and  a  more  insidious  feeling  crept  over  Peter  as 
he  did  so.  The  girl  bent  her  body  this  way  and  that ;  arched 
herself  over  and  looked  at  them  between  her  feet;  twisted 
herself  awry  and  made  faces  at  them.  They  laughed,  but 
there  was  a  new  note  in  the  laughter.  An  intense  look  had 
come  into  Pcnnell's  face,  and  Donovan  was  lolling  back,  his 
head  on  one  side,  smiling  evilly. 

She  finished  and  straightened  herself,  and  they  had  more 
of  the  lifjueur.  Then  Tommy,  as  usual,  remembered  herself. 
"Girls,"  she  said,  "we  must  go.    It's  fearfully  late." 

Donovan  sat  up.    "What  about  taxis?"  he  demanded. 

Peter  went  to  the  door.  "They'll  fetch  them,"  he  said. 
"I've  made  an  arrangement." 

He  went  a  little  unsteadily  to  find  the  mmtre  d'hotcl,  and 
a  boy  was  despatched,  while  he  settled  the  bill.  They  were 
tramping  down  the  stairs  as  he  came  out  of  the  little  oflice, 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  249 

Julie  leading  and  laughing  uproariously  at  some  joke. 
Donovan  and  Tommy  were  the  steadiest,  and  tliey  came 
down  together.  It  seemed  to  Peter  that  it  was  natural  for 
them  to  do  so. 

Pennell  and  Elsie  got  into  one  taxi.  She  leaned  out  of 
the  window  and  waved  her  hand.  "We're  the  luckiest," 
she  called ;  '.'we've  the  farthest  to  go.  Good-nigrtt  everyone, 
and  thanks  ever  so  much." 

A  second  taxi  came  up.    "Jump  in,  Julie,"  said  Tommy. 

She  got  in,  and  Peter  put  his  hand  on  the  door.  "I've 
settled  everything,  Donovan,"  he  said.  "See  you  to-morrow. 
Good-night,  Tommy." 

"Good-night,"  she  called  back,  and  he  got  in.  And  next 
minute  he  was  alone  with  Julie. 

In  the  closed  and  darkened  taxi  he  put  his  arm  round  her 
and  drew  her  to  him.  "Oh,  my  darling,"  he  murmured. 
"Julie,  do  you  love  me  as  I  love  you?  I  can't  live  without 
you."  He  covered  her  face  with  hot  kisses,  and  she  kissed 
him  back. 

"Julie,"  he  said  at  length,  breathlessly,  "listen.  My  leave's 
come.  I  knew  this  morning.  Couldn't  you  possibly  be  in 
England  when  I  am?  I  saw  you  first  on  the  boat  coming 
over — remember?    And  you're  due  again." 

"When  do  you  go?"  she  queried. 

"Fourteenth,"  he  answered. 

She  considered.  "I  couldn't  get  off  by  then,"  she  said, 
*'but  I  might  the  twenty-first  or  thereabouts.  I'm  due,  as 
you  say,  and  I  think  it  could  be  managed" 

"Would  you  ?"  he  demanded,  and  hung  on  her  words. 

She  turned  her  face  up  to  him,  and  even  in  the  dark  he 
could  see  her  glowing  eyes.  "It  would  be  heaven,  Peter," 
she  whispered. 

He  kissed  her  passionately. 

"I  could  meet  you  in  town  easily,"  he  said. 

"Not  the  leave-boat  train,"  she  replied;  "it's  not  safe. 
Anyone  might  be  there.  But  I'll  run  down  for  a  day  or  two 
to  some  friends  in  Sussex,  and  tlien  come  up  to  visit  more  in 


250  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

town.  I  know  very  few  people,  of  course,  and  all  my  rela- 
tions are  in  South  Africa.  No  one  would  know  to  whom  I 
went,  and  if  I  didn't  go  to  them,  Peter,  why  nobody  would 
know  either.' 

"Splendid!"  he  answered,  the  blood  pounding  in  his 
temples.  "Pll  make  all  the  arrangements.  Shall  I  take  a 
flat,  or  shall  we  go  to  an  hotel  ?  An  hotel's  more  fun, 
perhaps,  and  we  can  have  a  suite." 

She  leaned  over  against  him  and  caught  his  hand  to  her 
breast,  with  a  little  intake  of  breath. 

"I'll  leave  it  all  to  you,  my  darling,"  she  whispered. 

The  taxi  swung  into  the  clearing  before  tlie  hospital. 
*'Petcr,"  said  Julie,  "Tommy's  so  sharp ;  I  believe  she'll 
suspect  something." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  for  anyone!"  said  Peter  fiercely; 
"let  her.    I  only  want  you." 


CHAPTER  VI 

PETER  secured  his  leave  for  Monday  the  2ist  from 
Boulogne,  which  necessitated  his  leaving  Le  Havre  at 
least  twenty-four  hours  before  that  day.  There  were  two 
ways  of  travelling — across  country  in  a  troop-train,  or  by 
French  expresses  via  Paris.  He  had  heard  so  much  of  the 
latter  plan  that  he  determined  to  try  it.  It  had  appeared  to 
belong  to  the  reputation  of  the  Church. 

His  movement  order  was  simply  from  the  one  port  to  the 
other,  and  was  probably  good  enough  either  way  round  with 
French  officials ;  but  there  was  a  paper  attached  to  it  indicat- 
ing that  the  personnel  in  question  would  report  at  such  a 
time  to  the  R.T.O.  at  such  a  station,  and  the  time  and  the 
station  spelt  troop-train  unmistakably.  Now,  the  troop-train 
set  out  on  its  devious  journey  an  hour  later  than  the  Paris 
express  from  the  same  station,  and  the  hour  of  the  Paris 
express  corresponded  with  the  time  that  all  decent  officers 
go  to  dinner.  Peter  therefore  removed  the  first  paper,  folded 
it  up  thoughtfully,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He  then  re- 
ported to  the  R.T.O.  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the  Paris 
train  started,  and  found,  as  he  expected,  a  N.C.O.  in  sole 
charge.  The  man  took  his  paper  and  read  it.  He  turned 
it  over ;  there  was  no  indication  of  route  anywhere.  "Which 
train  are  you  going  by,  sir  ?"  he  asked. 

"Paris  mail,"  said  Peter  coolly.  "Will  you  please  put  my 
stuff  in  a  first?" 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  the  man,  endorsed  the  order  to  that 
effect,  and  shouldered  a  suit-case.  Peter  followed  him.  He 
was  given  a  first  to  himself,  and  the  Deputy  R.T.O.  saw 
the  French  inspector  and  showed  him  the  paper.  Peter 
strolled  off  and  collected  a  bottle  of  wine,  some  sandwiches, 

2  El 


252  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

and  some  newspapers ;  then  he  made  himself  comfortable. 
The  train  left  punctually.  Peter  lay  back  in  his  corner  and 
watched  the  country  slip  by  contentedly.  He  had  grown  up, 
had  this  young  man. 

He  arrived  in  Paris  with  the  dawn  of  Sunday  morning, 
and  looked  out  cautiously.  There  was  no  English  official 
visible.  However,  his  papers  were  entirely  correct,  and  he 
climbed  up  the  stairs  and  wandered  along  a  corridor  in  which 
hands  and  letters  from  time  to  time  indicated  the  lair  of 
the  R.T.O.  Arriving,  he  found  another  officer  waiting,  but 
no  RT.O.  The  other  was  "bored  stiff,"  he  said;  he  had 
sat  there  an  hour,  but  had  seen  no  sign  of  the  Transport 
Officer.  Peter  smiled,  and  replied  that  he  had  no  intention 
whatever  of  waiting;  he  only  wanted  to  know  the  times  of 
the  Boulogne  trains.  These  he  discovered  by  the  aid  of  a 
railway  guide  on  the  table,  and  selected  the  midnight  train, 
which  would  land  him  in  Boulogne  in  time  for  the  first 
leave-boat,  if  the  train  were  punctual  and  the  leave-boat  not 
too  early.  In  any  case,  he  could  take  the  second,  which 
would  only  mean  Victoria  a  few  hours  later  that  same  day. 
And  these  details  settled,  he  left  his  luggage  in  a  corner  and 
strolled  off  into  the  city. 

A  big  city,  seen  for  the  first  time  by  oneself  alone  when 
one  does  not  know  a  soul  in  it,  may  be  intensely  boring  or 
intensely  interesting.  It  depends  on  oneself.  Peter  was  in 
the  mood  to  be  interested.  He  was  introspective.  It  pleased 
him  to  watch  the  early  morning  stir ;  to  see  the  women  come 
out  in  shawls  and  slipshod  slippers  and  swill  down  their  bit 
of  pavement ;  to  see  sleepy  shopkeepers  take  down  their 
shutters  and  street-vendors  set  up  their  stalls ;  to  try  to  gauge 
the  thoughts  and  doings  of  the  place  from  the  shop-windows 
and  the  advertisements.  His  first  need  was  a  wash  and  a 
shave,  and  he  got  both  at  a  little  barber's  in  which  monsieur 
attended  to  him,  while  madame,  in  considerable  negligee, 
made  her  toilette  before  the  next  glass.  His  second  was 
breakfast,  and  he  got  it,  a  I'anglaise,  with  an  omelette  and 
jam,  in  a  just-stirring  hotel ;  and  then,  set  up,  he  strolled  off 


•  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  253 

for  the  centre  of  things.  Many  IVIasses  were  in  progress 
at  the  Madeleine,  and  he  heard  one  or  two  with  a  curious 
contentment,  but  they  had  no  lesson  for  him,  probably  be- 
cause of  the  foreign  element  in  the  atmosphere,  and  he  did 
not  pray.  Still,  he  sate,  chiefly,  and  watched,  until  he  felt 
how  entirely  he  was  a  stranger  here,  and  went  out  into  tlie 
sun. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  river,  and  lingered  there  long. 
The  great  cathedral,  with  its  bare  January  trees  silhouetted 
to  the  last  twig  against  the  clear  sky,  its  massive  buttresses, 
and  its  cluster  of  smaller  buildings,  held  his  imagination. 
He  went  in,  but  they  were  beginning  to  sing  Mass,  and  he 
soon  came  out.  He  crossed  to  the  farther  bank  and  found 
a  seat  and  lit  a  pipe.  Sitting  there,  his  imagination  awoke. 
He  conceived  the  pageant  of  faith  that  had  raised  those 
walls.  Kings  and  lords  and  knights,  all  the  glitter  and  gold 
of  the  Middle  Ages,  had  come  there — and  gone ;  Bishops  and 
Archbishops,  and  even  Popes,  had  had  their  day  of  splendour 
there — and  gone;  the  humbler  sort,  in  the  peasant  dress  of 
the  period,  speaking  quaint  tongues,  had  brought  their  sor- 
rows there  and  their  joys — and  gone;  yet  it  seemed  to  him 
that  they  had  not  so  surely  gone.  The  great  have  their  indi- 
vidual day  and  disappear,  but  the  poor,  in  their  corporate 
indistinguishableness  remain.  The  multitude,  petty  in  their 
trivial  wants  and  griefs,  find  no  historian  and  leave  no 
monument.  Yet,  ultimately,  it  was  because  of  the  Christian 
faith  in  the  compassion  of  God  for  such  that  Notre-Dame 
lifted  her  towers  to  the  sky.  The  stage  for  the  mighty  doings 
of  Kings,  it  was  the  home  of  the  people.  As  he  had  seen 
them  just  now,  creeping  about  the  aisles,  lighting  little  tapers, 
crouched  in  a  corner,  so  had  they  always  been.  Kings  and 
Bishops  figured  for  a  moment  in  pomp  before  the  altar,  and 
then  monuments  must  be  erected  to  their  memory.  But  it 
was  not  so  witli  the  poor.  Peter,  in  a  glow  of  warmth,  con- 
sidered that  he  was  in  truth  one  of  them.  And  Jesus  had 
had  compassion  on  the  multitude,  he  remembered.  The  text 
recalled  him,  and  he  frowned  to  himself. 


254  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

He  knocked  out  his  pipe,  and  set  out  leisurely  to  find 
luncheon.  The  famous  book-boxes  held  him,  and  he  bought 
a  print  or  two.  In  a  restaurant  near  the  Chatelet  he  got 
dejeuner,  and  then,  remembering  JuHe,  bought  and  wrote  a 
picture-postcard,  and  took  a  taxi  for  the  Bois.  He  was 
driven  about  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  watched  the  people 
lured  out  by  the  sun,  watched  the  troops  of  all  the  armies, 
watched  an  aeroplane  swing  high  over  the  trees  and  soar  off 
towards  \'crsaillcs.  He  discharged  his  car  at  the  Arc  de 
Triomphe,  and  set  about  deciphering  the  carven  pictures. 
Then  he  walked  up  the  great  Avenue,  made  his  way  to  the 
Place  de  la  Rcpubliquc,  wandered  through  the  gardens  of 
the  Louvre,  and,  as  dusk  fell,  found  himself  in  the  Avenue 
de  rOpera.  It  was  very  gay.  He  had  a  bock  at  a  little 
marble  table,  and  courteously  declined  the  invitations  of  a 
lady  of  considerable  age  painted  to  look  young.  He  at  first 
simply  refused,  and  finally  cursed  into  silence,  a  weedy,  flash 
youth  who  ofTcred  to  show  him  the  sights  of  the  city  in  an 
apparently  ascending  scale  till  he  reached  the  final  lure  of  a 
cancan,  and  he  dined  greatly  at  a  palace  of  a  restaurant. 
Then,  tired,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do. 

A  girl  passing,  smiled  at  him,  and  he  smiled  back.  She 
came  and  sat  down.  He  looked  bored,  she  told  him,  which 
was  a  thing  one  should  not  be  in  Paris,  and  she  offered  to 
assist  him  to  get  rid  of  the  plague. 

"What  do  you  suggest?"  he  demanded. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders — anything  that  he  pleased. 

"But  I  don't  know  what  I  want,"  he  objected. 

"Ah,  well,  I  have  a  flat  near,"  she  said — "a  charming  flat. 
"We  need  not  be  bored  there." 

Peter  demurred.  He  had  to  catch  the  midnight  train. 
She  made  a  little  gesture ;  there  was  plenty  of  time. 

He  regarded  her  attentively.  "See,  mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "I  do  not  want  that.  But  I  am  alone  and  I  want  com- 
pany. Will  you  not  stroll  about  Paris  with  me  for  an  hour 
or  tw^o,  and  talk?" 


.SIMON  CALLED  PETER  255 

She  smiled.  Monsieur  was  unreasonable.  She  had  her 
time  to  consider ;  she  could  not  waste  it. 

Peter  took  his  case  from  his  pocket  and  selected  a  note, 
folded  it,  and  handed  it  to  her,  without  a  word.  She  slipped 
it  into  her  bag.  "Give  me  a  cigarette,"  she  said.  "Let  us 
have  one  little  glass  here,  and  then  we  will  go  on  to  an  'otel 
I  know,  and  hear  the  band  and  see  the  dresses,  and  talk — is 
it  not  so?" 

He  could  not  have  found  a  better  companion.  In  the 
great  lounge,  later  on,  leaning  back  by  his  side,  she  chatted 
shrewdly  and  with  merrimer^t.  She  described  dresses  and 
laughed  at  his  ignorance.  She  acclaimed  certain  pieces,  and 
showed  a  real  knowledge  of  music.  She  told  him  of  life  in 
Paris  when  the  Hun  had  all  but  knocked  at  the  gates,  of  the 
gaiety  of  relief,  of  things  big  and  little,  of  the  flowers  in  the 
Bois  in  the  spring.  He  said  little,  but  enjoyed  himself. 
Much  later  she  went  with  him  to  the  station,  and  they  stood 
outside  to  say  good-bye. 

"Well,  little  girl,"  he  said,  "you  have  given  me  a  good 
evening,  and  I  am  very  grateful.  But  I  do  not  even  know 
your  name.    Tell  it  me,  that  I  may  remember." 

"Mariette,"  she  said.  "And  will  monsieur  not  take  my 
card?  He  may  be  in  Paris  again.  He  is  tres  agreable ;  I 
should  like  much  to  content  him.  One  meets  many,  but 
there  are  few  one  would  care  to  see  again." 

Peter  smiled  sadly.  For  the  first  time  a  wistful  note  had 
crept  into  her  voice.  He  thought  of  others  like  her  tliat  he 
knew,  and  he  spoke  very  tenderly.  "No,  Mariette,"  he  said. 
"If  I  came  back  I  might  spoil  a  memory.  Good-bye.  God 
bless  you!"  and  he  held  out  his  hand.  She  hesitated  a 
second.    Then  she  turned  back  to  the  taxi. 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go  ?"  he  demanded. 

She  leaned  out  and  glanced  up  at  the  clock.  "L' A  venue 
de  rOpera,"  she  said,  "s'il  vous  plait." 

The  man  thrust  in  the  clutch  with  his  foot,  and  Mariette 
was  lost  to  Peter  for  ever  in  the  multitude. 


256  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

In  Boulogne  he  heard  tliat  he  was  late  for  the  first  boat, 
but  caught  the  second  easily.  Remembering  Donovan's 
advice,  he  got  his  ticket  for  the  Pullman  at  once,  and  was 
soon  rolling  luxuriously  to  town.  The  station  was  bustling 
as  it  had  done  what  seemed  to  him  an  age  before,  but  he 
stepped  out  with  the  feeling  that  he  was  no  longer  a  fresher 
in  the  world's  or  any  other  university.  Declining  assistance, 
he  walked  over  to  the  Grosvenor  and  engaged  a  room,  dined, 
and  then  strolled  out  into  Victoria  Street. 

It  was  all  so  familiar  and  it  was  all  so  different.  He 
stood  aloof  and  looked  at  himself,  and  played  with  the 
thought.  It  was  incredible  that  he  was  the  Peter  Graham 
of  less  than  a  year  before,  and  that  he  walked  where  he 
had  walked  a  score  of  times.  lie  went  up  Whitehall,  and 
across  the  Square,  and  hesitated  whether  or  not  he  should 
take  the  Strand.  Deciding  against  it,  he  made  his  way  to 
Piccadilly  Circus  and  chose  a  music-hall  that  advertised  a 
world-famous  comedian.  He  heard  him  and  came  out,  still 
laughing  to  himself,  and  then  he  walked  down  Piccadilly  to 
Hyde  Park  Corner,  and  stood  for  a  minute  looking  up  Park 
Lane.  Hilda  ought  to  come  down,  he  said  to  himself 
amusedly.  Then,  marvelling  that  he  could  be  amused  at  all 
at  the  thcnight,  he  turned  off  for  his  hotel. 

It  is  nothing  to  write  down,  but  to  Peter  it  was  very  much. 
Everything  was  old,  but  everything  was  new  to  him.  At 
his  hotel  he  smoked  a  cigarette  in  the  lounge  just  to  watch 
the  men  and  women  who  came  and  went,  and  then  he  de- 
clined the  lift  and  ascended  the  big  staircase  to  his  room. 
As  he  went,  it  struck  him  why  it  was  that  he  felt  so  much 
wiser  than  he  had  been ;  that  he  looked  on  London  from  the 
inside,  whereas  he  had  used  to  look  from  the  outside  only; 
that  he  looked  with  a  charity  of  which  he  had  never  dreamed, 
and  that  he  was  amazingly  content.  And  as  he  got  into  bed 
he  thought  that  when  next  he  slept  in  town  he  would  not  be 
alone.    He  would  have  crossed  Tommy's  Rubicon. 

Next  morning  he  went  down  into  the  country  to  relations 
who  did  not  interest  him  at  all ;  but  he  walked  and  rode  and 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  257 

enjoyed  the  English  countryside  with  zest.  He  went  to  the 
Uttle  country  church  on  the  Sunday  twice,  to  Matins  and 
Evensong,  and  he  came  home  and  read  that  chapter  of  Mr. 
Wells'  book  in  which  Mr.  Britling  expounds  the  domestica- 
tion of  God.  And  he  had  some  fierce  moments  in  which  he 
thought  of  Louise,  and  of  Lucienne's  sister,  and  of  Mariette, 
and  of  Pennell,  and,  last  of  all,  of  Jenks,  and  asked  himself 
of  what  use  a  domesticated  God  could  be  to  any  of  them. 
And  then  on  the  Thursday  he  came  up  to  meet  Julie. 

It  thrilled  him  that  she  was  in  England  somewhere  and 
preparing  to  come  to  him.  His  pulses  beat  so  as  he  thought 
of  it  that  every  other  consideration  was  temporarily  driven 
from  his  mind;  but  presently  he  caught  himself  thinking 
what  ought  to  be  done,  and  of  what  she  would  be  like.  He 
turned  it  over  in  his  mind.  He  had  known  her  in  France, 
in  uniform,  when  he  was  not  sure  of  her;  but  now,  what 
would  she  be  like?  He  could  not  conceive,  and  he  banished 
the  idea.  It  would  be  more  splendid  when  it  occurred  if  he 
had  made  no  imaginary  construction  of  it. 

His  station  was  King's  Cross,  and  he  took  a  taxi  to  a 
big  central  hotel  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Regent  Street. 
And  as  he  passed  its  doors  they  closed  irrevocably  on  his  past. 

The  girl  at  the  bureau  looked  up  and  smiled.  "Good- 
morning,"  she  said.  "What  can  I  do  for  you?  We  are 
very  full." 

"Good-morning,"  he  replied.  "I  expect  you  are,  but  my 
wife  is  coming  up  to  town  this  afternon,  and  we  have  only 
a  few^  days  together.  We  want  to  be  as  central  as  possible. 
Have  you  a  small  suite  over  the  week-end?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  and  pulled  the  big  book  toward 
her.  She  ran  a  finger  down  the  page.  "Four-twenty,"  she 
said — "double  bedroom,  sitting-room,  and  bathroom,  how 
would  that  do?" 

"It  sounds  capital,"  said  Peter.     "May  I  go  and  see  it?" 

She  turned  in  her  seat,  reached  for  a  key,  and  touched 
a  button.  A  man  appeared,  soundlessly  on  the  thick,  rich 
carpet.    "Show  this  officer  four-twenty,  will  you?"  she  said. 


258  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

and  turned  to  someone  else.     Wliat  means  so  much  to  some 
of  us  is  everyday  business  to  otlicrs. 

Peter  followed  across  the  hall  and  into  a  lift.  They  went 
up  high,  got  out  in  a  corridor,  took  a  turn  to  the  right,  and 
stopped  before  a  door  numbered  420.  The  man  opened  it. 
Peter  was  led  into  a  little  hall,  with  two  doors  leading  from 
it.  The  first  room  was  the  sitting-room.  It  was  charmingly 
furnished  and  very  cosy,  a  couple  of  good  prints  on  the 
walls,  a  wide  fireplace,  a  tall  standard  lamp,  some  delightfully 
easy  chairs — all  this  he  took  in  at  a  glance.  He  walked  to 
the  window  and  looked  out.  Far  below  was  the  great  thor- 
oughfare, and  beyond  a  wilderness  of  roofs  and  spires.  He 
stood  and  gazed  at  it.  London  seemed  a  different  place  up 
there.  He  felt  remote,  and  looked  again  into  the  street.  Its 
business  rolled  on  inditTerent  to  him,  and  unaware.  He 
glanced  back  into  the  snug  pretty  little  room.  How  easy  it 
all  was,  how  secure!  "This  is  excellent,"  he  said.  "Show 
me  the  bedroom." 

"This  way,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

The  bedroom  was  large  and  airy.  A  pretty  light  paper 
covered  the  walls,  and  two  beds  stood  against  one  of  them, 
side  by  side.  The  sun  shone  in  at  the  big  double  windows 
and  fell  on  the  white  paint  of  the  woodwork,  the  plate-glass 
tops  of  the  toilet-tables,  and  the  thick  cream-coloured  carpet. 
A  door  was  open  on  his  right.  He  walked  across,  and  looked 
in  there  too.  A  tiled  bathroom,  he  saw  it  was,  the  clean 
towels  on  the  highly  polished  brass  rail  heated  by  steam,  the 
cork-mat  against  the  wall,  the  shower,  douche,  and  spray  all 
complete,  even  the  big  cake  of  delicious-looking  soap  on  its 
sliding  rack  across  the  bath.  He  looked  as  a  man  in  a  fairy- 
story  might  look.  It  was  as  if  an  enchanted  palace,  with 
the  princess  just  round  the  corner,  had  been  otTered  him. 
Smiling  at  the  conceit,  he  turned  to  the  man.  "I  didn't 
notice  the  telephone,"  he  said;  "I  suppose  it  is  installed?" 

"In  each  room,  sir,"  said  the  man. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Peter.     "It  will  suit  me  admirably. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  259 

Have  my  baggage  sent  up,  will  yuu,  and  say  that  I  engage 
the  suite.     I  will  be  down  presently." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  and  departed. 

Peter  went  back  to  the  sitting-room,  and  threw  himself 
into  a  chair.  Then  he  had  an  idea,  got  up,  went  to  the 
telephone,  ordered  a  bottle  of  whisky  to  be  sent  up,  and  a 
siphon,  and  went  back  to  his  seat.  Presently  he  was  pouring 
himself  out  a  drink  and  smoking  a  cigarette  on  his  own 
(temporary)  hearth-rug.  The  little  incident  increased  his 
satisfaction.  He  was  reassuring  himself.  Here  he  was 
really  safe  and  remote  and  master,  with  a  thousand  servants 
and  a  huge  palace  at  his  beck  and  call,  and  all  for  a  few 
pounds!  It  was  absurd,  but  he  thought  to  himself  that  he 
was  feeling  civilised  for  the  first  time,  perhaps. 

He  looked  round,  and  considered  Julie.  What  would 
she  want  ?  Flowers  to  begin  with,  heaps  of  them ;  she  liked 
violets  for  one  thing,  and  by  hook  or  by  crook  he  would  get 
a  little  wattle  or  mimosa  to  remind  her  of  Africa.  Then 
chocolates  and  cigarettes,  both  must  never  be  lacking,  and 
a  few  books — no,  not  books,  magazines ;  and  he  would  have 
some  wine  sent  up.  What  else?  Biscuits ;  after  the  theatre 
they  might  be  jolly.  Ah,  the  theatre!  he  must  book  seats. 
Well,  a  box  would  be  better;  they  did  not  want  to  run  too 
great  a  risk  of  being  seen.  Donovan  was  quite  possibly  in 
town,  to  say  nothing  of — older  friends.  Possibly,  consider- 
ing the  run  on  the  theatres,  he  had  better  book  up  fairly 
completely  for  the  days  they  had  together.  But  what  would 
she  like?  Julie  would  never  want  to  go  if  she  did  not  spon- 
taneously fancy  a  play.  It  was  a  portentous  question,  and 
he  considered  it  long.  Finally  he  decided  on  half-and-half 
measures,  leaving  some  time  free.  .  .  .  Time !  how  did  it 
go  ?  By  Jove !  he  ought  to  make  a  move.  Luncheon  first ; 
his  last  meal  alone  for  some  time ;  then  order  the  things ; 
and  Victoria  at  5.30.  He  poured  himself  another  short 
drink  and  went  out. 

He  lunched  in  a  big  public  grill-room,  and  chatted  with 


260  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

a  naval  officer  at  his  table  who  was  engaged  in  mine-sweeping 
with  a  stcani-tramp.  The  latter  was  not  vastly  enthusiastic 
over  things,  but  was  chiefly  depressed  because  he  had  to 
report  at  a  naval  base  that  night,  and  his  short  London  leave 
was  all  but  run  out. 

"Tell  you  what,"  he  said,  "I've  seen  a  good  many  cities 
one  way  and  another,  from  San  Francisco  to  Singapore,  and 
I  know  Paris  and  Brussels  and  P>crlin,  but  you  can  take  my 
word  for  it,  there's  no  better  place  for  ten  days'  leave  than 
this  same  old  blessed  I^ndon,  You  can  have  some  spree 
out  East  if  you  want  it,  but  you  can  get  much  the  same,  if 
not  better,  here.  If  a  fellow  wants  a  bit  of  a  skirt,  he  can 
get  as  good  a  pick  in  London  as  anywhere.  If  you  want  a 
good  show,  there  isn't  another  spot  in  the  universe  that  can 
beat  it,  whatever  it  is  you  feci  like.  If  you  want  to  slip  out 
of  sight  for  a  bit,  give  me  a  big  hotel  like  this  in  London. 
They  don't  damn-well  worry  al)out  identification  papers 
much  here — too  little,  p'raps,  these  days.  Ditl  you  hear  of 
those  German  submarine  officers  who  lived  in  an  hotel 
in  Southampton?" 

Peter  had  ;  there  were  few  people  who  hadn't,  seeing  that 
the  same  officers  lived  in  most  of  the  coast  towns  in  England 
that  year ;  but  it  is  a  pity  to  damp  enthusiasm.  He  said 
he  had  heard  a  little. 

"Walked  in  and  out  cool  as  you  please.  When  they  were 
drowned  and  picked  up  at  sea,  they  had  bills  and  thcatie 
tickets  in  their  {X)ckets,  and  a  letter  acknowledging  the  book- 
ing of  rooms  for  the  next  week!  Fact.  Had  it  from  the 
fellow  who  got  'em.  And  I  ask  you,  what  is  there  to  prevent 
it  ?  You  come  here :  'Will  you  write  your  name  and  regi- 
ment, please.'  You  write  the  damned  thing — any  old  thing, 
in  fact — and  what  happens?  Nothing.  They  don't  refer  to 
them.  In  France  the  lists  go  to  a  central  bureau  every  day, 
but  here — Lord  bless  you,  the  Kaiser  himself  might  put  up 
anywhere  if  he  shaved  his  moustache!" 

Peter  heard  him,  well  content.  He  offered  a  cigarette, 
feeling  warmly  disposed  towards  the  world  at  large.     The 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  261 

naval  officer  took  it.  "Thanks,"  he  said.  "You  in  town 
for  long?" 

"No,"  said  Peter — "a  week  end.  I've  only  just  happened. 
What's  worth  seeing?" 

"First  and  last  all  the  way,  Carminctta.  It's  a  dream. 
Wonderful.  By  Gad,  I  don't  know  how  that  girl  dues  it! 
Then  I'd  try  Ziijcag — oh!  and  go  to  You  Xcz'cr  Knozu,  y\ru 
Knozi',  at  the  Cri.  Absolutely  toppin',  A  perfect  scream  all 
through.  The  thing  at  Daly's'  good  too;  but  all  the  shows 
are  good,  though,  I  reckon.  Luinme,  you  wouldn't  think  the 
war  was  on,  'cept  they  all  touch  it  a  bit !  The  Better  'Ole  I 
like,  but  you  mightn't,  knowing  the  real  thing.  But  don't 
miss  Carminctta  if  you  have  to  stand  all  day  for  a  seat  in 
the  gods.  Well,  I  must  be  going.  Damned  rough  luck,  but 
no  help  for  it.    Let's  have  a  last  spot,  eh?" 

Peter  agreed,  and  the  drinks  were  ordered.  "Chin-chin," 
said  his  acquaintance.  "And  here's  to  old  London  town, 
and  the  Good  Lord  let  me  see  it  again.  It's  less  than  even 
chances,"  he  added  reflectively. 

"Here's  luck,"  said  Peter ;  then,  for  he  couldn't  help  it : 
"It's  you  chaps,  by  God,  that  arc  winning  this  war !" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  other,  rising.  "We  get  more 
leave  than  you  fellows,  and  I'd  sooner  be  on  my  tramp  than 
in  the  trenches.  The  sea's  good  and  clean  to  die  in,  anyway. 
Cheerio." 

Peter  followed  him  out  in  a  few  minutes,  and  set  about 
his  shopping.  He  found  a  florist's  in  Regent  Street  and 
bought  lavishly.  The  girl  smiled  at  him,  and  suggested  this 
and  that.  "Having  a  dinner  somewhere  to-night?"  she 
queried.    "But  I  have  no  violets." 

"Got  my  girl  comin'  up,"  said  Peter  expansively ;  "that's 
why  there  must  be  violets.  See  if  you  can  get  me  some  and 
send  them  over,  will  you?"  he  asked,  naming  his  hotel.  She 
promised  to  do  her  best,  and  he  departed. 

He  went  into  a  chocolate  shop.  "Got  some  really  decent 
chocolates?"  he  demanded. 

The  girl  smiled  and  dived  under  the  counter.    "These  are 


262  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

the  best,"  she  said,  holding  out  a  shovelful  for  Peter  to  taste. 
He  tried  one.  "They'll  do,"  he  said.  "Give  me  a  couple  of 
pounds,  in  a  i)rctty  box  if  you've  got  one." 

"Two  pounds!"  she  exclaimed.  "What  are  you  thinking 
of?    We  can  only  sell  a  quarter." 

"Only  a  quarter !"  said  Peter.  "That's  no  good.  Come 
on,  make  up  the  two  pounds." 

"If  my  boss  comes  in  or  finds  out  I'll  be  fired,"  said  the 
girl ;  "can't  be  done." 

"Well,  that  doesn't  matter,"  said  Peter  innocently.  "You'll 
easily  get  a  job — something  better  and  easier,  I  expect." 

"It's  easy  enough,  perhaps,"  said  the  girl,  "but  you  never 
can  tell.    And  it's  dangerous,  and  uncertain." 

Peter  stared  at  her.  When  he  bought  chocolates  as  a 
parson,  he  never  had  talks  like  this.  He  wondered  if  I^ndon 
had  changed  since  he  knew  it.  Then  he  played  up:  "You're 
pretty  enough  to  knock  that  last  out,  anyway?"  he  said. 

".•\m  I?"  she  demanded.  "Do  you  mean  you'd  like  to 
keep  me?" 

"I've  got  one  week-end  left  of  leave,"  said  Peter.  "What 
about  the  chocolates?" 

"Poor  boy!"  she  said.  "Well.  I'll  risk  it."  And  she  made 
up  the  two  pounds. 

He  wandered  into  a  tobacconist's,  and  bought  cigarettes 
which  Julie's  soul  loved,  and  then  he  made  for  a  theatre 
booking-office. 

Outside  and  his  business  done,  he  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  found  he  had  a  bit  of  time  to  spare.  He  walked  down 
Shaftesbury  Avenue,  and  thought  he  would  get  himself 
spruced  up  at  a  hairdresser's.  He  saw  a  little  place  with  a 
foreigner  at  the  door,  and  he  went  in.  It  was  a  tiny  room 
with  three  seats  all  empty.  The  man  seated  him  in  one  and 
began. 

Peter  discovered  that  his  hair  needed  this  and  that,  and 
being  in  a  good  temper  and  an  idle  mood  acquiesced.  Pres- 
ently a  girl  came  in.  Peter  smelt  her  enter,  and  then  saw 
her  in  the  glass.    She  was  short  and  dark  and  foreign,  too. 


SIMOiN  CALLED  PETER  263 

and  she  wore  a  blouse  that  appeared  to  have  remarkably 
little  beneath  it,  and  to  be  about  to  slip  otl  her  shoulders. 
She  came  forward  and  stood  between  him  and  the  glass, 
smiling.  "Wouldn't  you  like  your  nails  manicured?"  she 
demanded. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Peter ;  "I  had  not  meant  to  .  .  ." 
and  was  lost. 

"Second  thoughts  are  best,"  she  said;  "but  let  me  look  at 
your  hands.  Oh,  I  should  think  you  did  need  it !  Whatever 
will  your  girl  say  to  you  to-night  if  you  have  hands  like 
this?" 

Peter,  humiliated,  looked  at  his  hands.  They  did  not 
api^ear  to  him  to  dilTcr  much  from  the  hands  Julie  and  others 
had  seen  without  visible  consternation  before,  but  he  had  no 
time  to  say  so.  The  young  lady  was  now  seated  by  his  side 
with  a  basin  of  hot  water,  and  was  dabbling  his  hand  in  it 
"Nice?    Not  too  hot?"  she  inquired  brightly. 

Peter  watched  her  as  she  bent  over  her  work  and  kept  up 
a  running  fire  of  talk.  He  gathered  that  many  ofticeri> 
habitually  were  manicured  by  her,  many  of  them  in  their 
own  rooms.  It  was  lucky  for  him  that  she  was  not  out. 
Possibly  he  would  like  to  make  an  appointment ;  she  could 
come  early  or  late.  No?  Then  she  thought  his  own  mani- 
cure-set must  be  a  poor  one,  judging  from  these  hands,  and 
perhaps  she  could  sell  him  another.  No?  Well,  a  little 
cream.  Not  to-day?  He  would  look  in  to-morrow?  He 
hadn't  a  chance?  She  would  tell  him  what:  where  was  he 
staying?  (Peter,  for  the  fun  of  it,  told  her  he  had  a  private 
suite  in  the  hotel.)  Well,  that  was  splendid.  She  would 
call  in  with  a  new  set  at  any  time,  before  breakfast,  after 
the  theatre,  as  he  pleased ;  bring  the  cream  and  do  his  hands 
once  with  it  to  show  him  how.    How  would  that  suit  him? 

Peter  was  not  required  to  say,  for  at  that  mi.mte  the 
shop-bell  rang  and  a  priest  came  in,  a  little  old  man,  tired- 
looking,  in  a  black  cassock.  He  was  apparently  known, 
though  he  seemed  to  take  no  notice  of  anyone.  The  man 
was  all  civility,  but  put  on  an  expression  meant  to  indicate 


264  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

amusement,  to  Peter,  behind  the  clerical  back.  The  girl  put 
one  of  Peter's  fingers  on  her  own  lips  by  way  of  directing 
caution,  and  continued  more  or  less  in  silence.  The  room 
became  all  but  silent  save  for  the  sound  of  scissors  and  the 
noise  of  the  traffic  outside,  and  Peter  reflected  again  on  many 
things.  When  he  had  had  his  hair  cut  previously,  for 
instance,  had  people  made  faces  behind  his  back?  Had 
young  ladies  ceased  from  tempting  offers  that  seemed  to 
include  more  than  manicuring? 

lie  got  up  to  pay.  "Well,"  she  demanded,  sotto  voce^ 
"what  of  the  arrangement?  She  could  do  him  easily  at 
any  .  .  ." 

lie  cut  her  short.  No;  it  was  really  impossible.  His 
wife  was  coming  up  that  afternoon.  It  was  plain  that  she 
now  regarded  it  as  impossible  also.  He  paid  an  enormous 
sum  wonderingly,  and  departed. 

Outside  it  struck  him  that  he  had  forgotten  one  thing.  Pie 
walked  briskly  to  the  hotel,  and  went  up  to  his  rooms.  In 
the  sitting-room  was  the  big  bunch  of  flowers  and  a  maid 
unwrapping  it.  She  turned  and  smiled  at  him.  'These  have 
just  come  for  you,  sir,"  she  said.  "Shall  I  arrange  them 
for  you?" 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Peter.  "I'd  rather  do  them  myself. 
I  love  arranging  flowers,  and  I  know  just  what  my  wife  likes. 
I  expect  you'd  do  them  better,  but  I'll  have  a  shot,  if  you 
don't  mind.  Would  you  fill  the  glasses  and  get  me  a  few 
more?    We  haven't  enough  here." 

"Certainly,  sir.  There  was  a  gentleman  here  once  who 
did  flowers  beautifully,  he  did.  But  most  likes  us  to  do  it 
for  them." 

She  departed  for  the  glasses.  Peter  saw  that  the  florist 
had  secured  his  violets,  and  took  them  first  and  filled  a  bowl. 
Then  he  walked  into  the  bedroom  and  contemplated  for  a 
tninute.  Then  he  put  the  violets  critically  on  the  little  table 
by  the  bed  nearest  the  window,  and  stood  back  to  see  the 
result.  Finding  it  good,  he  departed.  When  next  he  came 
in,  it  was  to  place  a  great  bunch  of  roses  on  the  mantelshelf. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  265 

And  a  few  sprays  of  the  soft  yellow  and  green  mimosa  on  the 
dressing-table.  For  the  sitting-room  he  had  carnations  and 
delphiniums,  and  he  placed  a  high  towering  cluster  of  the 
latter  on  the  writing-table,  and  a  vase  of  the  former  on  the 
mantelpiece.  A  few  roses,  left  over,  went  on  the  small  table 
that  carried  the  reading-lamp,  and  he  and  the  chambermaid 
surveyed  the  results. 

"Lovely,  I  do  think,"  she  said ;  "any  lady  would  love  them. 
I  likes  flowers  myself,  I  do.  I  come  from  the  country,  sir, 
where  there's  a  many,  and  the  wild  flowers  that  Jack  and  I 
liked  best  of  all.  Specially  primroses,  sir."  There  was  a 
sound  in  her  voice  as  she  turned  away,  and  Peter  heard  it, 

"Jack?"  he  queried  softly. 

"  'E's  been  missing  since  last  July,  sir,"  she  said,  stopping 
by  the  door. 

"Has  he?"  said  Peter.  "Well,  you  must  not  give  up  hope, 
you  know ;  he  may  be  a  prisoner." 

She  shook  her  head.  "He's  dead,"  she  said,  with  an  air 
of  finality.  "I  oughtn't  to  have  spoke  a  word,  but  them 
flowers  reminded  me.  Pm  glad  as  how  I  have  to  do  these 
rooms,  sir.  Most  of  them  don't  bother  with  flowers.  Is 
there  anything  else  you  might  be  wanting,  sir?" 

"Light  fires  in  both  the  grates,  please,"  he  said.  "I'm  so 
sorry  about  Jack,"  he  added. 

She  gave  him  a  look,  and  passed  out. 

Peter  wandered  about  touching  this  and  that.  Suddenly 
he  remembered  the  magazines.  He  ran  out  and  caught  a 
lift  about  to  descend,  and  was  once  more  in  the  street.  Near 
Leicester  Square  was  a  big  foreign  shop,  and  he  entered  it, 
and  gathered  of  all  kinds.  As  he  went  to  pay,  he  saw  La 
Vie  Parisienne,  and  added  that  also  to  the  bundle ;  Julie 
used  to  say  she  loved  it.  Back  in  the  hotel,  he  sent  them  to 
his  room,  and  glanced  at  his  watch.  He  had  time  for  tea. 
He  went  out  into  the  lounge  and  ordered  it,  sitting  back 
under  the  palms.  It  came,  and  he  was  in  the  act  of  pouring 
out  a  cup  when  he  saw  Donovan. 

Donovan  was  with  a  girl,  but  so  were  most  men;  Peter 


266 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


could  not  be  sure  of  her.  It  was  only  a  glimpse  he  had,  for 
the  two  had  finished  and  were  passing  out.  Donovan  stood 
back  to  let  her  first  through  the  great  swing-doors,  and  then, 
pulling  on  his  gloves,  followed.     They  both  disappeared. 

Peter  sat  on,  in  a  tumult.  lie  had  been  too  busy  all  day 
to  reflect  much,  but  now  just  what  he  was  about  to  do  began 
to  overwhelm  him.  If  Donovan  met  him  with  Julie?  Well, 
they  could  pretend  ihey  had  just  met,  they  could  even  part, 
and  meet  again.  Could  they?  Would  Donovan  be  deceived 
for  a  minute?  It  seemed  to  him  impossible.  And  he  might 
be  staying  there.  Suppose  he  met  someone  else.  Lnngton? 
Sir  Robert  Dcnle?  His  late  \'icar?  Hilda?  Mr.  I^ssing? 
And  Julie  would  have  acquaintances  too.  He  shook  himself 
mentally,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  Well,  suppose  they  did ;  he 
was  finished  with  them.  Finished?  Then,  what  lay  ahead 
— what,  after  this,  if  he  were  discovered?  And  if  he  were 
not  discovered  ?    God  knew.  .  .  . 

His  mind  took  a  new  train  of  thought:  he  was  now  just 
such  a  one  as  Donovan.  Or  as  Pennell.  As  Langton?  He 
wasn't  sure ;  no,  he  thought  not ;  Langton  kept  straight 
because  he  had  a  wife  and  kids.  He  had  a  centre.  Donovan 
and  Pennell  had  not,  apparently.  Well,  he,  Peter  Graham, 
would  have  a  centre;  he  would  marrj'  Julie.  It  would  be 
heavenly.  They  had  not  spoken  of  it,  of  course,  that  night 
of  the  dinner,  but  surely  Julie  would.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  after  the  week-end.  ...  "I  shan't  marry  or  be  given 
in  marriage,"  she  had  said.  It  was  like  her  to  speak  so,  but 
of  course  she  didn't  mean  it.  No,  he  would  marry;  and 
then? 

He  blew  out  smoke.  The  Colonies,  South  Africa;  he 
would  get  a  job  schoolmastering ?  He  hated  the  idea;  it 
didn't  interest  him.  A  farm?  He  knew  nothing  about  it — 
besides,  one  wanted  capital.  What  would  he  do?  What 
did  he  want  to  do?  U'atit — that  was  it;  how  did  he  want 
to  spend  his  life?  Well,  he  wanted  Julie;  everj-thing  else 
would  fit  round  her,  everj-thing  else  would  be  secondary 
beside  her.    Of  course.    And  as  he  got  old  it  would  still  be 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  267 

the  same,  though  he  could  not  imagine  eitlier  of  them  old. 
But  still,  when  they  did  get  old,  his  work  would  seem  more 
important,  and  what  was  it  to  be?  Probably  it  would  have 
to  be  schoolmastering.  Teaching  Latin  to  little  boys — His- 
tory, Geography,  Mathematics.  He  smiled  ruefully;  even 
factors  worried  him.  They  would  hardly  want  Latin  and 
Greek  much  in  the  Colonies,  either.  Perhaps  at  home;  but 
would  Julie  stop  at  home?  What  wokW  Julie  do?  He  must 
ask  her,  sometime  before  Monday.  Not  that  night — no,  not 
tJiat  night.  .  .  . 

He  ground  his  cigarette  into  his  cup,  and  pushed  his  hands 
into  his  pockets,  his  feet  out  before  him.  That  night!  He 
saw  the  sitting-room  upstairs ;  they  would  go  there  first. 
Then  he  would  suggest  a  dinner  to  her,  in  Soho ;  he  knew  a 
place  tJiat  Pennell  had  told  him  of.  Bohemian,  but  one 
could  take  anyone — at  least,  take  Julie.  It  would  be  jolly 
watching  the  people,  and  watching  Julie.  He  saw  her, 
mentally,  opposite  him,  and  her  eyes  sparkling  and  alluring. 
And  afterwards,  warmed  and  fed — why,  back  to  the  hotel, 
to  the  sitting-room,  by  the  fire.  They  would  have  a  little 
supper,  and  then  .  .  . 

He  pictured  the  bedroom.  He  would  let  Julie  go  first. 
He  remembered  reading  in  a  novel  how  some  newly  married 
wife  said  to  the  fellow:  "You'll  come  up  in  half  an  hour  or 
so,  won't  you,  dear?"  He  could  all  but  see  the  words  in 
print.  And  so,  in  half  an  hour  or  so,  he  would  go  in,  and 
Julie  would  be  in  bed,  by  the  violets,  and  he — he  would 
know  what  men  talked  about,  sometimes,  in  the  anteroom. 
...  He  recalled  a  red- faced,  coarse  Colonel :  "No  man's  a 
man  till  he's  been  all  the  way,  I  say.  ,  .  ." 

And  he  ^vas  a  chaplain,  a  priest.  Was  he?  The  past 
months  spun  before  him,  his  sermons,  his  talks  to  the 
wounded  at  the  hospital,  the  things  he  had  seen,  the  stories 
he  had  heard.  He  sighed.  It  was  all  a  dream,  a  sham. 
There  was  no  reality  in  it  all.  Where  and  what  was  Christ? 
An  ideal,  yes,  but  no  more  than  an  ideal,  and  unrealisable — 
a  vision  of  the  beautiful.    He  thought  he  had  seen  that  once, 


268 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


but  not  now.  The  beautiful!  Ah!  What  place  had  His 
Beauty  in  Travalini's,  in  the  shattered  railway-carriage,  in 
the  dinner  at  tlie  Grand  in  Havre  with  Julie? 

Julie.  He  dwelt  on  her,  eyes,  hair,  face,  skin,  and  lithe 
figure.  He  felt  her  kisses  again  on  his  lips,  those  last 
burning  kisses  of  New  Year's  Night,  and  they  were  all  to 
be  his,  as  never  before.  .  .  .  Julie.  What,  then,  was  she? 
She  was  his  bride,  his  w^ife,  coming  to  him  consecrate — not 
by  any  State  convention,  not  by  any  ceremony  of  man-made 
religion,  but  by  the  pure  passion  of  human  love,  virginal, 
clean.  It  was  human  passion,  perhaps,  but  where  was  higher 
love  or  greater  sacrifice?  Was  this  not  worthy  of  all  hi3 
careful  prcparaiitm,  worthy  of  the  one  centre  of  his  being? 
Donovan,  indeed !  He  wished  he  had  stopped  and  told  him 
the  whole  story,  and  that  he  expected  Julie  that  night. 

He  jumped  up,  and  walked  out  in  the  steps  of  Donovan, 
but  with  never  another  thought  of  him.  A  boy  in  uniform 
questioned  him:  "Ta.xi,  sir?"  He  nodded,  and  the  com- 
missionaire pushed  back  the  great  swing-door.  He  stood  on 
the  steps,  and  watched  the  passers-by,  and  the  lights  all 
shaded  as  they  were,  that  began  to  usher  in  a  night  of 
mystery.  His  taxi  rolled  up,  and  the  man  held  the  door 
open.  "Victoria!"  cried  Peter,  and  to  himself,  as  he  sank 
back  on  the  seat,  "Julie !" 


CHAPTER  VII 

JULIE!"  exclaimed  Peter,  "I  should  hardly  have  known 
you ;  you  do  look  topping !" 

"Glad  rags  make  all  that  difference,  old  boy?  Well,  I 
am  glad  you  did  know  me,  anyhow.  How  are  you?  Had 
long  to  wait?" 

"Only  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  I'm  very  fit,  and  just  dying 
for  you,  Julie." 

She  smiled  up  at  him  and  blushed  a  little.  "Are  you, 
Peter?  It's  much  the  same  here,  my  dear.  But  don't  you 
think  we  had  better  get  a  move  on,  and  not  stop  here  talking 
all  night  ?" 

Peter  laughed  excitedly.  "Rather,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  so 
excited  at  seeing  you  that  I  hardly  know  if  I'm  on  my  head 
or  my  heels.  What  about  your  luggage?  What  have  you? 
Have  you  any  idea  where  it  is?    There's  a  taxi  waiting." 

"I  haven't  much :  a  big  suit-case,  most  important  because 
it  holds  an  evening  dress — it's  marked  with  my  initials ;  a 
small  leather  trunk,  borrowed,  with  a  big  star  on  it;  and 
my  dressing-case,  wdiich  is  here.  And  I  tJiink  they're  behind, 
but  I  wouldn't  swear,  because  we've  seemed  to  turn  round 
three  times  in  the  course  of  the  journey,  but  it  may  have 
been  four !" 

Peter  chuckled.  She  was  just  the  old  Julie,  but  yet  with 
a  touch  of  something  more  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  under- 
lying even  the  simplest  words. 

"Well,  you  stand  aside  just  a  moment  and  I'll  go  and  see," 
he  said,  and  he  hurried  off  in  the  crowd. 

Julie  stood  waiting  patiently  by  a  lamp-stand  while  the 
world  bustled  about  her.     She  wore  a  little  hat  with  a  gay 

26Q 


270  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

pheasant's  wing  in  it,  a  dark  green  travelling  dress  and  neat 
brown  shoes,  and  brown  silk  stockings.  Most  people  looked 
at  her  as  they  passed,  including  several  officers,  but  there 
was  a  different  look  in  her  brown  eyes  from  that  usually 
there,  and  they  all  passed  on  unhesitatingly. 

It  seemed  to  her  a  good  while  before  Peter  came  up  again, 
in  his  wake  a  railway  Amazon  with  the  trunk  on  her  shoulder 
and  the  suit-case  in  her  hand.  "Sorry  to  keep  you,  dear," 
he  said.  "But  there  was  a  huge  crush  and  next  to  no 
porters,  if  these  are  porters.  It  feels  rotten  to  have  a  woman 
carrying  one's  luggage,  but  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped. 
Come  on.     Aren't  you  tired?     Don't  you  want  tea?" 

"I  am  a  little,"  she  said.  "And  I  do  a  bit.  Where  are 
we  going  to  get  it?  Do  they  sell  teas  in  London,  Peter,  or 
have  you  taken  a  leaf  out  of  my  book?" 

They  laughed  at  the  reminiscence.  "Julie,"  said  Peter, 
"this  is  my  outfit,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  think  of  it. 
Give  me  your  ticket,  will  you?  I  want  to  see  you  through 
myself." 

She  handed  him  a  little  purse  without  a  word,  and  they 
set  otT  together.  She  was  indulging  in  the  feeling  of  sur- 
render as  if  it  were  not  a  victory  she  had  won,  and  he  was 
glowing  with  the  sense  of  acquisition,  as  if  he  had  really 
acquired   something. 

Julie  got  into  the  taxi  while  Peter  settled  the  luggage,  gave 
directions,  and  paid  the  Amazon.  Then  he  climbed  in  and 
pulled  the  door  to,  and  they  slipped  out  of  the  crowded 
station-yard  into  the  roar  of  London.  Julie  put  her  hand  in 
his.  "Peter,"  she  said,  "do  tell  me  where  we're  going.  I'm 
dying  to  know.  What  arrangements  have  you  made?  Is  it 
safe?" 

He  leaned  over  her,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "A  kiss,  first, 
Julie:  no  one  will  see  and  it  doesn't  matter  a  damn  if  they 
do.  That's  tlie  best  of  London.  My  dear,  I  can  hardly 
believe  we're  both  here  at  last,  and  that  I've  really  got  you." 
Their  lips  met. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  271 

Julie  flung  herself  back  with  a  laugh.  "Oh,  Peter,"  she 
said,  "I  shall  never  forget  that  first  taxi.  If  you  could  have 
seen  your  own  face!  Really  it  was  too  comic,  but  I  must 
say  you've  changed  since  then." 

*T  was  a  fool  and  a  beast,"  he  said,  more  gravely;  "I'm 
only  just  beginning  to  realise  how  much  of  a  fool.  But 
don't  rub  it  in,  Julie,  or  not  just  now.  I'm  starting  to  live 
at  last,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  reminded  of  the  past." 

She  pressed  his  hand  and  looked  out  of  window.  "Where 
are  we,  Peter?    Whitehall?    Where  are  we  off  to?" 

"I've  got  the  snuggest  little  suite  in  all  London,  darling," 
he  said,  "with  a  fairy  palace  at  our  beck  and  call.  I've  been 
revelling  in  it  all  day — not  exactly  in  it,  you  know,  but  in 
the  thought  of  it.  I've  been  too  busy  shopping  to  be  in 
much ;  and  Julie,  I  hope  you  notice  my  hands :  I've  had  a 
special  manicure  in  preparation  for  you.  And  the  girl  is 
coming  round  to-morrow  before  breakfast  to  do  me  again — 
or  at  least  she  wanted  to." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?  Peter,  what  have  you 
been  doing  to-day?"  She  sighed  a  mock  sigh.  "Really, 
you're  getting  beyond  me;  it's  ratlier  trying." 

Peter  launched  out  into  the  story  to  fill  up  time.  He  really 
did  not  want  to  speak  of  the  rooms,  that  they  might  give 
her  the  greater  surprise.  So  he  kept  going  till  the  taxi 
stopped  before  the  hotel.  He  jumped  out  gaily  as  the  com- 
missionaire opened  the  door. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "as  quick  as  ever  you  can."  Then, 
to  the  man :  "Have  these  sent  up  to  No.  420,  will  you, 
please?"    And  he  took  Julie's  arm. 

They  went  in  at  the  great  door,  and  crossed  the  wide  en- 
trance-hall. Everyone  glanced  at  Julie,  Peter  noted  proudly, 
even  the  girls  behind  the  sweet-counter,  and  the  people  wait- 
ing about  as  always.  Julie  held  her  head  high  and  walked 
more  sedately  tlian  usual.  She  was  a  bit  different,  thought 
Peter,  but  even  nicer.    He  glowed  at  the  thought. 

He  led  her  to  the  hft  and  gave  his  landing  number.    They 


272  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

walked  down  the  corridor  in  silence  and  in  at  their  door. 
Peter  opened  tlie  door  on  the  left  and  stood  back.  Julie 
went  in.     He  followed  and  shut  the  door  behind  them. 

The  maid  had  lit  a  fire,  which  blazed  merrily,  Julie  took 
it  all  in — the  flowers,  the  pile  of  magazines,  even  the  open 
box  of  cigarettes,  and  she  turned  enthusiastically  to  him 
and  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  kissing  him  again  and 
again.  "Oh,  Peter  darling,"  she  cried,  "I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  love  you !  I  could  hardly  sit  still  in  the  railway  carriage, 
and  the  train  seemed  worse  than  a  French  one.  But  now  I 
have  you  at  last,  and  all  to  myself.  Oh,  Peter,  my  darling 
Peter!" 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Julie  disengaged  her 
arms  from  his  neck,  but  slipped  her  hand  in  his,  and  he  said, 
"Come  in." 

The  maid  entered,  carrying  tea.  She  smiled  at  them.  "I 
thought  madame  might  like  tea  at  once,  sir,"  she  said,  and 
placed  the  tray  on  the  little  table. 

"Thank  you  ever  so  much,"  said  Julie  impulsively ;  "that 
is  good  of  you.  Pm  longing  for  it.  One  gets  so  tired  in 
the  train."  Then  she  walked  to  the  glass.  "Pll  take  ofT  my 
hat,  Peter,"  she  said,  "and  my  coat,  and  then  we'll  have  tea 
comfortably.  I  do  want  it,  and  a  cigarette.  You're  an 
angel  to  have  thought  of  my  own  De  Reszke." 

She  threw  herself  into  a  big  basket  chair,  and  leaned  ovef 
to  the  table.  "Milk  and  sugar  for  you,  Peter?  By  the  way, 
I  ought  to  know  these  things ;  not  that  it  much  matters ;  ours 
was  a  war  marriage,  and  Pve  hardly  seen  you  at  all !" 

Peter  sat  opposite,  and  watched  her  pour  out.  She  leaned 
back  with  a  piece  of  toast  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  on  him,  and 
they  smiled  across  at  each  other.  Suddenly  he  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  He  put  his  cup  down  and  knelt  forward  at  her 
feet,  his  arms  on  her  knees,  devouring  her,  "Oh,  Julie,"  he 
said,  "I  want  to  worship  you — I  do  indeed.  I  can't  believe 
my  luck.    I  can't  think  that  you  love  me." 

Her  white  teeth  bit  into  the  toast.     "You  old  silly,"  she 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  273 

said.  "But  I  don't  want  to  be  worshipped ;  I  won't  be  wor- 
shipped; I  want  lo  be  loved,  Peter." 

He  put  his  arms  up,  and  pulled  her  head  down  to  his, 
kissing  her  again  and  again,  stroking  her  arm,  murmuring 
foolish  words  that  meant  nothing  and  meant  everjlhing.  It 
was  she  who  stopped  him.  "Go  and  sit  down,"  she  said, 
"and  tell  mc  all  the  plans." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  do  hope  you'll  like  them.  First,  I've 
not  booked  up  anything  for  to-night.  I  thought  we'd  go 
out  to  dinner  to  a  place  I  know  and  sit  over  it,  and  enjoy 
ourselves.  It's  a  place  in  Soho,  and  quite  humorous,  I 
think.  Then  we  might  walk  back:  London's  so  perfect  at 
night,  isn't  it?  To-morrow  I've  got  seats  for  the  Coliseum 
matinee.  You  know  it,  of  course;  it's  a  jolly  place  where 
one  can  talk  if  one  wants  to,  and  smoke ;  and  then  I've  seats 
in  the  evening  for  Zigzag.  Saturday  night  we're  going  to 
see  Carminctta,  which  they  say  is  the  best  show  in  town, 
and  Saturday  morning  we  can  go  anywhere  you  please,  or  do 
anything.  And  we  can  cut  out  any  of  them  if  you  like,"  he 
added. 

She  let  her  arms  lie  along  the  chair,  and  drew  a  breath  of 
delight.  "You're  truly  wonderful,"  she  said.  "What  a 
blessing  not  having  to  worry  what's  to  be  done !  It's  a  per- 
fect programme.  I  only  wish  we  could  be  in  Paris  for 
Sunday ;  it's  so  slow  here." 

He  smiled.  "You're  sure  you're  not  bored  about  to- 
night?" he  asked.  She  looked  him  full  in  the  eyes  and  said 
nothing.  He  sprang  up  and  rushed  towards  her.  She 
laughed  her  old  gay  laugh,  and  avoided  him,  jumping  up 
and  getting  round  the  table.  "No,"  she  warned ;  "no  more 
now.    Come  and  show  me  the  rest  of  the  establishment." 

Arm  in  arm  they  made  the  tour  of  inspection.  In  the 
bathroom  Julie's  eyes  danced.  "Thank  the  Lord  for  that 
bath,  Peter,"  she  said.  "I  shall  revel  in  it.  That's  one 
thing  I  loathe  about  France,  that  one  can't  get  decent  baths, 
and  in  the  country  here  it's  no  better.    I  had  two  inches  of 


274  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

water  In  n  fopt-bath  down  in  Sussex,  and  when  you  sit  in 
the  ocastly  rhtngnnly  about  three  inches  of  yourself  get  wet 
and  those  the  IcuSt  importp.nt  inches.  I  shall  lie  in  this  for 
hours  and  smoke,  and  you  shall  feed  me  with  chocolates 
and  read  to  me.     I  low  will  you  like  that  ?" 

Peter  made  the  only  possible  answer,  and  they  went  back 
to  the  bedroom.  The  man  was  bringing  up  her  luggage, 
and  he  deposited  it  on  the  luggage-stool.  "Heavens!"  said 
Julie,  "where  arc  my  keys?  Oh,  I  know,  in  my  purse.  I 
hope  you  haven't  lost  it.  Do  give  it  to  me.  The  suit-case  is 
beautifully  packed,  but  the  trunk  is  in  an  apj)alling  mess.  I 
had  to  thro\^  my  things  in  anyhow.  By  the  way,  I  wonder 
what  they'll  make  of  ditTercnt  initials  on  all  our  !  •? 

Not  that  it  matters  a  scrap,  especially  these  days.  Dt^iucs, 
I  don't  supixjsc  they  noticed." 

She  was  on  her  knees  by  the  trunk,  and  had  undone  it. 
She  lifted  the  lid,  and  Peter  saw  the  confusion  inside,  and 
caught  sight  of  the  unfamiliar  clothes.  Julie  was  rummag- 
ing everywhere.  "I  know  Pve  left  them  Ixrhind!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "Whatever  shall  I  do?  My  scent  and  powdcr-puflf! 
Peter,  it's  terrible!  I  can't  go  to  Soho  to  dinner  without 
them." 

"Ixt's  go  and  get  some,"  he  suggested;  "there's  time." 

"No,  I  can't,"  she  said.  "You  go.  Don't  be  long.  I 
want  to  sit  in  front  of  the  fire  and  be  cosy." 

Peter  set  otT  on  the  unfamiliar  errand,  smiling  grimly  to 
himself.  He  got  the  scent  easily  enough,  and  then  inquired 
for  a  powder-putT.  In  the  old  days  he  would  scarcely  have 
dared ;  but  he  liad  been  in  France.  He  selected  a  little 
French  box  with  a  mirror  in  the  lid  and  a  pretty  rosebud 
pattern,  and  paid  for  it  unblushingly.    Then  he  returned. 

He  opened  the  door  of  their  sitting-room,  and  stood  trans- 
fixed for  a  minute.  The  shaded  reading-lamp  was  on,  the 
other  lights  otT.  The  fire  glowed  red,  and  Julie  lay  stretched 
out  in  a  big  chair,  smoking  a  cigarette.  She  turned  and 
looked  up  at  him  over  her  shoulder.  She  had  taken  off  her 
dress  and  slipped  on  a  silk  kimono,  letting  her  hair  down. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  275 

t^'hich  fell  in  thick  tumbled  masses  about  her.  The  arm  that 
held  the  cigarette  was  stretched  up  above  her,  and  the  wide, 
loose  sleeve  of  the  kimono  had  slipped  back,  leaving  it  bare 
to  her  shoulder.  Her  white  frilled  petticoat  showed  beneath, 
as  she  had  pushed  her  feet  out  before  her  to  the  warmth  of 
the  fire.     Peter's  blood  i>ounded  in  his  temples. 

"Good  boy,"  she  said ;  "you  haven't  been  long.  Come  and 
show  me.    I  had  to  get  comfortable:  I  hope  you  don't  mind." 

He  came  slowlv  forward  without  a  word  and  bent  over 
her.  The  scent  of  her  rose  into.xicatingly  around  him  as  he 
bent  down  for  a  kiss.  Their  lips  clung  together,  and  the 
wide  world  stood  still. 

Tulic  made  room  for  him  beside  her.  "You  dear  old 
thing,"  she  exclaimed  at  the  sight  of  the  powder-pufT.  "It's 
a  gem.  You  couldn't  have  bettered  it  in  Paris."  She  opened 
it,  took  out  the  little  puff,  and  dabbed  her  open  throat. 
Then,  laughing,  she  dabbed  at  him:  "Don't  look  so 
solemn,"  she  said,  "Solomon!" 

Peter  slipped  one  arm  round  her  beneath  the  kimono,  and 
felt  her  warm  relaxed  waist.  Then  he  pushed  his  other 
hand,  unresisted,  in  where  her  white  throat  gleamed  bare 
and  open  to  him,  and  laid  his  lips  on  her  hair.  "Oh,  Julie," 
he  said,  "I  had  no  idea  one  could  love  so.  It  is  almost  more 
than  I  can  bear." 

The  clock  on  the  mantelpiece  struck  a  half -hour,  and 
Julie  stirred  in  his  arms  and  glanced  up.  "Good  Lord, 
Peter!"  she  exclaimed,  "do  you  know  what  tlie  time  is? 
Half-past  seven!  I  shall  never  be  dressed,  and  we  shall 
get  no  dinner.  Let  me  up,  for  goodness  sake,  and  give  me 
a  drink  if  you've  got  such  a  thing.  If  not,  ring  for  it.  I 
shall  never  have  energy  enough  to  get  into  my  things  other- 
wise." 

Peter  opened  the  little  door  of  the  sideboard  and  got  out 
decanter,  siphon,  and  glasses.  Julie,  sitting  up  and  arrang- 
ing herself,  smiled  at  him.  "Is  there  a  single  thing  you 
haven't  thought  of,  you  old  dear?"  she  said. 

"Say  when,"  said  Peter,  coming  towards  her.     Then  he 


276  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

poured  himself  out  a  tumbler  and  stood  by  the  fire,  looking 
at  her. 

"It's  a  pity  we  have  to  go  out  at  all,"  he  said,  "for  I  sup- 
pose you  can't  go  like  that." 

"A  pity?  It's  a  jolly  good  thing.  You  wait  till  you've 
seen  my  frock,  my  dear.  But,  Peter,  do  you  tliink  there's 
likely  to  be  anyone  there  that  we  know?" 

He  shook  his  head.    "Not  there,  at  any  rate,"  he  said. 

"Here?" 

"More  likely,  but  it's  such  a  big  place  we're  not  likely 
to  meet  them,  even  so.  But  if  you  feel  nervous,  do  you 
know  the  best  cure?  Come  down  into  the  lounge,  and  see 
the  crowd  of  people.  You  sit  there  and  people  stream  by, 
and  you  don't  know  a  face.  It's  the  most  comfortable  feel- 
ing in  the  world.  One's  more  alone  than  on  a  desert  island. 
You  might  be  a  ghost  that  no  one  sees." 

Julie  shuddered.  "Peter,  don't !  You  make  me  feel 
creepy."  She  got  up.  "Go  and  find  that  maid,  will  you? 
I  want  her  to  help  me  dress." 

Peter  walked  to  the  bell  and  rang  it.  "Where  do  I  come 
in?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  you  can  go  and  wash  in  the  bathroom,  and  if  you're 
frightened  of  her  you  can  dress  there!"  And  she  walked 
to  the  door  laughing. 

"I'll  just  finish  my  drink,"  he  said.  "You  will  be  heaps 
longer  than  I." 

Five  minutes  later,  having  had  no  answer  to  his  ring,  he 
switched  off  the  light,  and  walked  out  into  the  hall.  He 
hesitated  at  Julie's  door,  then  he  tapped.  "Come  in,"  she 
said. 

She  was  standing  half -dressed  in  front  of  the  glass  doing 
her  hair.  "Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?"  she  said.  "Wherever  is  that 
maid  ?     I  can't  wait  all  night  for  her ;  you'll  have  to  help." 

Peter  sat  down  and  began  to  change.  Half-s*^rreptitiously 
he  watched  Julie  moving  about,  and  envied  *^er  careless 
abandon.     He  was   much  the  more  nervous    A  the  two. 


^  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  277 

Presently  she  called  him  from  the  bathroom  to  fasten  her 
dress.  When  it  was  done,  she  stood  back  for  him  to  exam- 
ine her, 

"That  all  right  ?"  she  demanded,  putting  a  touch  here  and 
there. 

Not  every  woman  could  have  worn  her  gown.  It  was  a 
rose  pink  with  some  rich  flame-coloured  material  in  front,  and 
was  held  by*  two  of  the  narrowest  bands  on  her  shoulders. 
In  the  deep  decollete  she  pushed  two  rosebuds  from  the  big 
bunch,  and  hung  round  her  neck  a  pendant  of  mother-of- 
pearl  and  silver.  She  wore  no  other  jewellery,  and  she 
needed  none.    She  faced  him,  a  vision  of  loveliness. 

They  went  down  the  stairs  together  and  out  into  the  crush 
of  people,  some  of  the  women  in  evening  dress,  but  few 
of  the  men.  The  many  uniforms  looked  better,  Peter 
thought,  despite  the  drab  khaki.  They  had  to  stand  for 
awhile  while  a  taxi  was  found,  Julie  laughing  and  chatting 
vivaciously.  She  had  a  wrap  for  her  shoulders  that  she 
had  bought  in  Port  Said,  set  with  small  metallic  points,  and 
it  sparkled  about  her  in  the  blaze  of  light.  She  flattered  him 
by  seeming  unconscious  of  anyone  else,  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  arm  as  they  went  out. 

They  drove  swiftly  through  back-streets  to  the  restaurant 
tliat  Peter  had  selected,  and  stopped  in  a  quiet,  dark,  narrow 
road  off  Greek  Street.  Julie  got  out  and  looked  around 
with  pretended  fear.  "Where  in  the  world  have  you  brought 
me?"  she  demanded.  "However  did  you  find  the  place? 
It's  worse  than  some  of  your  favourite  places  in  Havre." 

Inside,  however,  she  looked  round  appreciatively. 
"Really,  Peter,  it's  splendid,"  she  said  under  her  breath — 
"just  the  place,"  and  smiled  sweetly  on  the  padrone  who 
came  forward,  bowing.  Peter  had  engaged  a  table,  and 
they  were  led  to  it. 

"I  had  almost  given  you  up,  sir,"  said  the  man,  "but  by 
good  fortune,  some  of  our  patrons  are  late  too." 

They  sat  down  opposite  to  each  other,  and  studied  the 


278  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

menu  held  out  to  them  by  a  waiter.  "I  don't  know  the 
meaning  of  half  the  dishes,"  laughed  Julie.  "You  order. 
It'll  be  more  fun  if  I  don't  know  what's  cominer." 

"We  must  drink  Chianti,"  said  Peter,  and  ordered  a 
bottle.    "You  can  think  you  are  in  Italy." 

Elbows  on  the  table  as  she  waited,  Julie  looked  round. 
In  the  far  corner  a  gay  party  of  four  were  halfway  through 
dinner.  Two  officers,  an  elderly  lady  and  a  young  one,  she 
found  rather  hard  to  place,  but  Julie  decided  the  girl  was 
the  fiancee  of  one  who  had  brought  his  friend  to  meet  her. 
At  other  tables  were  mostly  couples,  and  across  the  room 
from  her,  with  an  elderly  officer,  sat  a  well-made-up  woman, 
very  plainly  demimonde.  Immediately  before  her  were  four 
men,  two  of  them  foreigners,  in  morning  dress,  talking  and 
eating  hard.  It  was  evidently  a  professional  party,  and  one 
of  the  four  now  and  again  hummed  out  a  little  air  to  the 
rest,  and  once  jotted  down  some  notes  on  the  back  of  a 
programme.  They  took  no  notice  of  anyone,  but  the  eyes 
of  the  woman  with  the  officer,  who  hardly  spoke  to  her, 
searched  Julie  unblushingly. 

Julie  gave  a  little  sigh  of  happiness.  "This  is  lovely, 
Peter,"  she  said.  "We'll  be  ages  over  dinner.  It's  such  fun 
to  be  in  nice  clothes  just  for  dinner  sometimes,  and  not  to 
have  to  worry  about  the  time,  and  going  on  elsewhere.  But 
I  do  wish  my  friends  could  see  me,  I  must  say.  They'd  be 
horrified.  They  thought  I  was  going  to  a  stodgy  place  in 
West  Kensington.  I  was  most  careful  to  be  vague,  but  that 
was  the  idea.  Peter,  how  would  you  like  to  live  in  a  suburb 
and  have  heaps  of  children,  and  dine  out  with  city  men  and 
their  wives  once  or  twice  a  month  for  a  treat  ?" 

Peter  grimaced.  Then  he  looked  thoughtful.  "It 
wouldn't  have  been  any  so  remarkable  for  me  at  one  time, 
Julie,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head.  "It  would,  my  dear.  You're  not 
made  for  it." 

"What  am  I  made  for,  then?" 


^SIAION  CALLED  PETER  279 

She  regarded  him  solemnly,  and  then  relaxed  into  a 
smile.  "I  haven't  a  notion,  but  not  that.  The  thing  is  never 
to  v^^orry.  You  get  what  you're  made  for  in  the  end,  1 
think." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Peter.  "Perhaps,  but  not  always.  The 
world's  full  of  square  pegs  in  round  holes." 

"Then  they're  stodgy  pegs,  without  anything  in  them. 
If  I  was  a  square  peg  Pd  never  go  into  a  round  hole." 

"Suppose  there  was  no  other  hole  to  go  into,"  demanded 
Peter. 

"Then  Pd  fall  out,  or  I  wouldn't  go  into  any  hole  at  all. 
I'd  sooner  be  anything  in  the  world  than  stodgy,  Peter.  Pd 
sooner  be  like  that  woman  over  there  who  is  staring  at  me 
so!" 

Peter  glanced  to  one  side,  and  then  back  at  Julie.  He 
was  rather  grave.    "Would  you  really  ?"  he  questioned. 

The  waiter  brought  the  Chianti  and  poured  out  glasses. 
Julie  waited  till  he  had  gone,  and  then  lifted  hers  and  looked 
at  Peter  across  it.  "I  would,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't  live 
without  wine  and  excitement  and  song.  Pm  made  that 
way.     Cheerio,  Solomon !" 

They  drank  to  each  other.  Then:  "And  love?"  queried 
Peter  softly. 

Julie  did  not  reply  for  a  minute.  She  set  her  wine-glass 
-down  and  toyed  with  the  stem.  Then  she  looked  up  at  him 
under  her  eyelashes  with  that  old  daring  look  of  hers,  and 
repeated:  "And  love,  Peter.  But  real  love,  not  stodgy 
humdrum  liking,  Peter.  I  want  the  love  that's  like  the  hot 
sun,  and  the  wide,  tossing  blue  sea  east  of  Suez,  and  the 
nights  under  the  moon  where  the  real  world  wakes  up  and 
doesn't  go  to  sleep,  like  it  does  in  the  country  in  the  cold, 
hard  North.  Do  you  know,"  she  went  on,  "though  I  love 
the  cities,  and  bands,  and  restaurants,  and  theatres,  and 
taxis,  and  nice  clothes,  I  love  best  of  all  the  places  where 
one  has  none  of  these  things.  I  once  went  with  a  shooting- 
party  to  East  Africa,  Peter,  and  that's  what  I  love.    I  shall 


28o  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

never  forget  the  nights  at  Kilindini,  with  the  fireflies  dancing 
among  the  bushes,  and  the  moon  gHstcning  on  the  pahns  as 
if  they  were  wet,  and  the  insects  shrilling  in  tiie  grass,  and 
the  hot,  damp  air.  Or  by  day,  up  in  the  forest,  camped  under 
the  great  trees,  with  the  strange  few  flowers  and  the  silence, 
while  the  sun  trickled  through  the  leaves  and  made  pools  of 
Hght  on  the  ground.  Do  you  know,  I  saw  the  most  beauti- 
ful thing  I've  ever  seen  or,  I  think,  shall  see  in  that  forest." 

"What  was  that  ?"  asked  Peter,  under  her  spell,  for  she 
was  speaking  like  a  woman  in  a  dream. 

"It  was  one  day  when  we  were  marching.  We  came  on 
a  glade  among  the  trees,  and  at  the  end  of  it,  a  little  de- 
pression of  damp  green  grass,  only  the  grass  was  quite  hid- 
den beneath  a  sheet  of  blue — such  blue,  I  can't  describe  it — 
that  quivered  and  moved  in  the  sun.  We  stood  quite  still, 
and  then  a  boy  threw  a  little  stone.  And  the  blue  all  rose 
in  the  air,  silently,  like  magic.  It  was  a  swarm  of  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  blue  butterflies,  Peter.  Do  you  know  what  I 
did?  I  cried — I  couldn't  help  it.  It  was  too  beautiful  to 
see,  Peter." 

A  little  silence  fell  between  them.  She  broke  it  in  another 
tone. 

"And  the  natives — I  love  the  natives.  I  just  love  the  all 
but  naked  girls  carrying  the  water  up  to  the  village  in  the 
evening,  tall  and  straight,  like  Greek  statues ;  and  the  men, 
in  a  string  of  beads  and  a  spear.  I  wanted  to  go  naked 
myself  there — at  least,  I  did  till  one  day  I  tried  it,  and  the 
sun  skinned  me  in  no  time.  But  at  least  one  needn't  wear 
much — cool  loose  things,  and  it  doesn't  matter  what  one 
does  or  says." 

Peter  laughed.  "\Mio  was  with  you  when  you  tried  the 
experiment?"  he  demanded. 

Julie  threw  her  head  back,  and  even  the  professional  four 
glanced  up  and  looked  at  her.  "Ah,  wouldn't  you  like  to 
know?"  she  laughed.  "Well,  I  won't  tease  you — two  native 
girls  if  you  want  to  know,  that  was  all.     The  rest  of  the 


^  SIMON  CALLED  PETER  281 

party  were  having  a  midday  sleep.  But  I  never  can  sleep 
at  midday.  I  don't  mind  lying  in  a  hammock  or  a  deck- 
chair,  and  reading,  but  I  can't  sleep.  One  feels  so  beastly 
when  one  wakes  up,  doesn't  one  ?" 

Peter  nodded,  but  steered  her  back.  "Tell  me  more,"  he 
said.  "You  wake  something  up  in  me;  I  feel  as  if  I  was 
born  to  be  there." 

"Well,"  sfie  said  reflectively,  "I  don't  know  that  anything 
can  beat  the  great  range  that  runs  along  our  border  in 
Natal.  It's  different,  of  course,  but  it's  very  wonderful. 
There's  one  pass  I  know — see  here,  you  go  up  a  wide  valley 
with  a  stream  that  runs  in  and  out,  and  that  you  have  to 
cross  again  and  again  until  it  narrows  and  narrows  to  a 
small  footpath  between  great  kranzes.  At  first  there  are 
queer  stunted  trees  and  bushes  about,  with  the  stream,  that's 
now  a  tiny  thing  of  clear  water,  singing  among  them,  and 
there  the  trees  stop,  and  you  climb  up  and  up  among  the 
boulders,  until  you  think  you  can  do  no  more,  and  at  the 
last  you  ct)me  out  on  the  top." 

"And  then?" 

"You're  in  wonderland.  Before  you  lies  peak  on  peak, 
grass-grown  and  rocky,  so  clear  in  the  rare,  still  air.  There 
is  nothing  there  but  mountain  and  rock  and  grass,  and  the 
blue  sky,  with  perhaps  little  clouds  being  blown  across  it, 
and  a  wind  that's  cool  and  vast — you  feel  it  fills  everything. 
And  you  look  down  the  way  you've  come,  and  there's  all 
Natal  spread  out  at  your  feet  like  a  tiny  picture,  lands  and 
woods  and  rivers,  till  it's  lost  in  the  mist  of  the  distance." 

She  ceased,  staring  at  her  wine-glass.  At  last  the  chatter 
of  the  place  broke  in  on  Peter.  "My  dear,"  he  exclaimed, 
"one  can  see  it.    But  what  do  you  do  there?" 

She  laughed  and  broke  the  spell.  "What  would  one  do?" 
she  demanded.  "Eat  and  drink  and  sleep,  and  make  love, 
Peter,  if  there's  anybody  to  make  love  to." 

"But  you  couldn't  do  that  all  your  life,"  he  objected. 

"Why  not?     Why  do  anything  else?     I  never  can  see. 


282  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

And  when  you're  tired — for  you  do  get  tired  at  last — back 
to  Durban  for  a  razzle-dazzle,  or  back  farther  still,  to  Lon- 
don or  Paris  for  a  bit.    That's  the  life  for  me,  Peter!" 

He  smiled:  "Provided  somebody  is  there  witli  the  nec- 
essary, I  supjKJse?"  he  said. 

"Solomon,"  she  mocked,  "Solomon,  Solomon!  Why  do 
you  spoil  it  all?  But  you're  right,  of  course,  Peter,  though 
I  hate  to  think  of  that." 

"I  see  how  we're  like,  and  how  we're  unlike,  Julie,"  said 
Peter  suddenly.  "You  like  real  things,  and  so  do  L  You 
hate  to  feel  stuffy  and  tied  up  in  conventions,  and  so  do  L 
But  you're  content  with  just  that,  and  Pm  not." 

"Am  I?"  she  queried,  looking  at  him  a  little  strangely. 

Peter  did  not  notice;  he  was  bent  on  pursuing  his  argu- 
ment. "Yes,  you  are,"  he  said.  "VYhen  you're  in  the  grip 
of  real  vital  things — nature  naked  and  unashamed — you 
have  all  you  want.  You  don't  stop  to  think  of  to-morrow. 
You  live.  But  I.  I  feel  that  there  is  something  round  the 
corner  all  the  time.  I  feel  as  if  there  must  be  something 
bigger  than  just  that.  Pd  love  your  forest  and  your  range 
and  your  natives.  I  think,  but  only  because  one  is  nearer 
something  else  with  them  than  here.  I  don't  know  how  to 
put  it.  but  when  you  think  of  those  things  you  feel  full,  and 
I  still  feel  empty." 

"Peter,"  said  Julie  softly,  "do  you  remember  Caudebec?" 

He  looked  up  at  her  then.  "I  shall  never  forget  it,  dear," 
he  said. 

"Then  you'll  remember  our  talk  in  the  car?" 

He  nodded.  "When  you  talked  about  marriage  and 
human  nature  and  men,  and  so  on,"  he  .said. 

"No,  I  don't  mean  that.  I  did  talk  of  those  things,  and  1 
gave  you  a  little  rather  bitter  philosophy  that  is  more  true 
than  you  think;  but  I  don't  mean  that.  Afterwards,  when 
we  spoke  about  shams  and  playing.  Do  you  remember,  I 
hinted  that  a  big  thing  might  come  along — do  you  remem- 
ber?" 

He  nodded  again,  but  he  did  not  speak. 


^SIMON  CALLED  PETER  283 

"Well,"  she  said,  "it's  come— that's  all." 

"Another  bottle  of  Chianti,  sir?"  queried  the  padrone  at 
his  elbow. 

Peter  started.  "What?  Oh,  yes,  please,"  he  said.  "We 
can  manage  another  bottle,  Julie?  And  bring  on  the  dessert 
now,  will  you?     Julie,  have  a  cigarette." 

"If  we  have  another  bottle  you  must  drink  most  of  it," 
she  laughed,  almost  as  if  they  had  not  been  interrupted,  but 
with  a  little  vivid  colour  in  her  cheeks.  "Otherwise,  my 
dear,  you'll  have  to  carry  me  upstairs,  which  won't  look  any 
too  well.  But  I  want  another  glass.  Oh,  Peter,  do  look  at 
that  woman  now  !" 

Peter  looked.  The  elderly  oflRcer  had  dined  to  repletion 
and  drank  well  too.  The  woman  had  roused  herself;  she 
was  plainly  urging  him  to  come  on  out ;  and  as  Peter 
glanced  over,  she  made  an  all  but  imperceptible  sign  to  a 
waiter,  who  bustled  forward  with  the  man's  cap  and  stick. 
He  took  them  stupidly,  and  the  woman  helped  him  up,  but 
not  too  noticeably.  Together  they  made  for  the  door,  which 
the  waiter  held  wide  open.  The  woman  tipped  him,  and  he 
bowed.  The  door  closed,  and  the  pair  disappeared  into  the 
street. 

"A  damned  plucky  sort,"  said  Julie;  "I  don't  care  what 
anyone  says." 

"I  didn't  think  so  once,  Julie,"  said  Peter,  "but  I  believe 
you're  right  now.  It's  a  topsy-turvy  world,  little  girl,  and 
one  never  knows  where  one  is  in  it." 

"Men  often  don't,"  said  Julie,  "but  women  make  fewer 
mistakes.  Come,  Peter,  let's  get  back.  I  want  the  walk,  and 
I  want  that  cosy  little  room." 

He  drained  his  glass  and  got  up.  Suddenly  the  thought 
of  the  physical  Julie  ran  through  him  like  fire.  "Rather  1" 
he  said  gaily.    "So  do  I,  little  girl." 

The  waiter  pulled  back  the  chairs.  The  padrone  came  up 
all  bows  and  smiles.  He  hoped  the  Captain  would  come 
again — any  time.  It  was  better  to  ring  up,  as  they  were 
often  very  full.     A  taxi?     No?     Well,  the  walk  through 


284  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

the  streets  was  enjoyable  aficr  dinner,  even  now,  when 
the  lights  were  so  few.  Good-evening,  niadanic ;  he  hoped 
everything  had  been  to  her  Hking. 

Julie  sauntered  across  the  now  half -empty  little  room, 
and  took  Peter's  arm  in  the  street.  "Do  you  know  the  way?" 
she  demanded. 

"We  can't  miss  it,"  he  said.  "Up  here  will  lead  us  to 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  somewhere,  and  then  we  go  down. 
Sure  you  want  to  walk,  darling?" 

"Yes,  and  see  the  people,  Peter.  I  love  seeing  them. 
Somehow,  by  night  they're  more  natural  than  they  are  by 
day.  I  hate  seeing  people  going  to  work  in  droves,  and  men 
rushing  about  the  city  with  dollars  written  all  across  their 
faces.  At  night  that's  mostly  finished  with.  One  can  see 
ugly  things,  but  some  rather  beautiful  ones  as  well.  Let's 
cross  over.    There  are  more  people  that  side." 

They  passed  together  down  the  big  street.  Even  the 
theatres  were  darkened  to  some  extent,  but  ta.xis  were  about, 
and  kept  depositing  their  loads  of  men  and  smiling  women. 
The  street-walks  held  Tommies,  often  plainly  with  a  sweet- 
heart from  down  east ;  men  who  sauntered  along  and 
scanned  the  faces  of  the  women;  a  newsboy  or  two;  a  few 
loungers  waiting  to  pick  up  odd  coppers;  and  here  and 
there  a  woman  by  herself.  It  was  the  usual  crowd,  but  they 
were  in  the  mood  to  see  the  unusual  in  usual  things. 

In  the  Circus  they  lingered  a  little.  Shrouded  as  it  was, 
an  atmosphere  of  mystery  hung  over  everything.  Little 
groups  that  talked  for  a  while  at  the  corners  or  made  ap- 
pointments, or  met  and  broke  up  again,  had  the  air  of  con- 
spirators in  some  great  affair.  The  rush  of  cars  down  Re- 
gent Street,  and  then  this  way  and  that,  lent  colour  to  the 
thought,  and  it  affected  both  of  them.  "What's  brooding 
over  it  all,  Julie?"  Peter  half-whisix;red.  "Can't  you  feel 
that  there  is  something?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  then  gave  a  little  shiver. 
"Love,  or  what  men  take  for  love/'  she  said. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  285 

He  clasped  the  hand  that  lay  along  his  arm  passionately. 
"Come  along,"  he  said, 

"Oh,  this  is  good,  Peter,"  said  Julie  a  few  minutes  later. 
She  had  thrown  off  her  wrap,  and  was  standing  by  the  fire 
while  he  arranged  the  cigarettes,  the  biscuits,  and  a  couple 
of  drinks  on  the  little  table  with  its  shaded  light.  "Did  you 
lock  the  doori*  Are  we  quite  alone,  we  two,  at  last,  with  all 
the  world  shut  out?" 

He  came  swiftly  over  to  her,  and  took  her  in  his  arms 
for  answer.  He  pressed  kisses  on  her  hair,  her  lips,  her 
neck,  and  she  responded  to  them. 

"Oh,  love,  love,"  he  said,  "let's  sit  down  and  forget  that 
there  is  anything  but  you  and  L" 

She  broke  from  him  with  a  little  laugh  of  excitement. 
"We  will,  Peter,"  she  said;  "but  Pm  going  to  take  off 
this  dress  and  one  or  two  other  things,  and  let  my  hair  down. 
Then  PU  come  back." 

"Take  them  off  here,"  he  said ;  "you  needn't  go  away." 

She  looked  at  him  and  laughed  again.  "Help  me,  then," 
she  said,  and  turned  her  back  for  him  to  loosen  her  dress. 

Clumsily  he  obeyed.  He  helped  her  otT  with  the  shim- 
mering beautiful  thing,  and  put  it  carefully  over  a  chair. 
With  deft  fingers  she  loosened  her  hair,  and  he  ran  his 
fingers  through  it,  and  buried  his  face  in  the  thick  growth 
of  it.  She  untied  a  ribbon  at  her  waist,  and  threw  from 
-her  one  or  two  of  her  mysterious  woman's  things.  Then, 
with  a  sigh  of  utter  abandonment,  she  threw  herself  into 
his  arms. 

They  sat  long  over  the  fire.  Outside  the  dull  roar  of  the 
sleepless  city  came  faintly  up  to  them,  and  now  and  again 
a  coal  fell  in  the  grate.  At  long  last  Peter  pushed  her  back 
a  little  from  him.  "Little  girl,"  he  said,  "I  must  ask  one 
thing.  Will  you  forgive  me?  That  night  at  Abbeville, 
after  we  left  Langton,  what  was  it  you  wouldn't  tell  me? 
W^hat  was  it  you  thought  he  would  have  known  about  you, 
but  not  I  ?    Julie,  I  thought,  to-night — was  it  anything  to  do 


286  SIMON  CALLED  PETEK 

with  East  Africa — those  tropical  nights  under  the  moon? 
Oh,  tell  me,  Julie!" 

The  girl  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  That  look  of  pain  and 
knowledge  tliat  he  had  seen  from  the  beginning  was  in  them 
again.  Her  hand  clasped  the  lappet  of  his  tunic  convulsively, 
and  she  seemed  to  him  indeed  but  a  little  girl. 

"Peter!  could  you  not  have  asked?  But  no,  you  couldn't, 
not  you.  .  .  .  But  you  guess  now,  don't  you?  Oh,  Peter, 
I  was  so  young,  and  I  thought — oh,  I  thought  the  big  thing 
had  come,  and  since  then  life's  been  all  one  big  mockery. 
I've  laughed  at  it,  Peter:  it  was  the  only  way.  And  then 
you  came  along.  I  haven't  dared  to  think,  but  there's  some- 
thing about  you — oh,  I  don't  know  what!  But  you  don't 
play  tricks,  do  you,  Peter?  And  you've  given  me  all,  at 
last,  without  a  question.  .  ,  .  Oh,  Peter,  tell  me  you  love 
me  still !  It's  your  love,  Peter,  that  can  make  me  clean  and 
save  my  soul — if  I've  any  soul  to  save,"  she  added  brokenly. 

Peter  caught  her  to  him.  He  crushed  her  so  that  she 
caught  her  breath  with  the  pain  of  it,  and  he  wound  his 
hand  all  but  savagely  in  her  hair.  He  got  up — and  she 
never  guessed  he  had  the  strength — and  carried  her  out  in 
his  arms,  and  into  the  other  room. 

And  hours  later,  staring  into  the  blackness  while  she  slept 
as  softly  as  a  child  by  his  side,  he  could  not  help  smiling  a 
little  to  himself.  It  was  all  so  different  from  wliat  he  had 
imagined. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PETER  awoke,  and  wondered  where  he  was.  Then  his 
eye  fell  on  a  half -shut,  unfamiliar  trunk  across  the  room, 
and  he  heard  splashing  through  the  open  door  of  the  bath- 
room.    "Julie!"  he  called. 

A  gurgle  of  laughter  came  from  the  same  direction  and 
the  splashing  ceased.  Almost  the  next  second  Julie  appeared 
in  the  doorway.  She  was  still  half -wet  from  the  water, 
and  her  sole  dress  was  a  rosebud  which  she  had  just  tucked 
into  her  hair.  She  stood  there,  laughing,  a  perfect  vision 
of  unblushing  natural  loveliness,  splendidly  made  from  her 
little  head  poised  lightly  on  her  white  shoulders  to  her  slim 
feet.  "You  lazy  creature !"  she  exclaimed ;  "you're  awake 
at  last,  are  you  ?  Get  up  at  once,"  and  she  ran  over  to  him 
just  as  she  was,  seizing  the  bed-clothes  and  attempting  to 
strip  them  off.  Peter  protested  vehemently.  "You're  a 
shameless  baggage,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  want  to  get  up  yet. 
I  want  some  tea  and  a  cigarette  in  bed.     Go  away!" 

"You  won't  get  up,  won't  you?"  she  said.  "All  right;  111 
get  into  bed,  then,"  and  she  made  as  if  to  do  so. 

"Get  away!"  he  shouted.  "You're  streaming  wet! 
You'll  soak  everything." 

"I  don't  care,"  she  retorted,  laughing  and  struggling  at 
the  same  time,  and  she  succeeded  in  getting  a  foot  between 
the  sheets.  Peter  slipped  out  on  the  other  side,  and  she  ran 
round  to  him.  "Come  on,"  she  said ;  "now  for  your  bath. 
Not  another  moment.  My  water's  steaming  hot,  and  it's 
quite  good  enough  for  you.  You  can  smoke  in  your  bath  or 
after  it.    Come  on  !" 

She  dragged  him  into  the  bathroom  and  into  that  bath, 

287 


288  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

and  then  she  filled  a  sponge  with  cold  water  and  trickled  it 
on  him,  until  he  threatened  to  jump  out  and  give  her  a  cold 
douche.  Then,  panting  with  her  exertions  and  dry  now,  she 
collapsed  on  the  chair  and  began  to  fumble  with  her  hair 
and  its  solitary  rose.  It  was  exactly  Julie  who  sat  there 
unashamed  in  her  nakedness,  Peter  thought.  She  had  kept 
the  soul  of  a  child  through  everything,  and  it  could  burst 
through  the  outer  covering  of  the  woman  who  had  tasted 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil  and  laugh  in  the 
sun. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  "wouldn't  you  love  to  live  in  the  Fiji — • 
no,  not  the  Fiji,  because  I  expect  that's  civilised  these  days, 
but  on  an  almost  desert  island? — though  not  desert,  of 
course.  Why  does  one  call  Robinson  Crusoe  sort  of  islands 
descrtf  Oh,  I  know,  because  it  means  deserted,  I  suppose. 
But  I  don't  want  it  quite  deserted,  for  I  want  you,  and  three 
or  four  huts  of  nice  savages  to  cut  up  wood  for  the  fire  and 
that  sort  of  thing.  And  I  should  wear  a  rose — no,  a  hibiscus 
— in  my  hair  all  day  long,  and  nothing  else  at  all.  And  you 
should  wear — well,  I  don't  know  what  you  should  wear,  but 
something  picturesque  that  covered  you  up  a  bit,  because 
you're  by  no  means  so  good-looking  as  I  am,  Peter."  She 
jumped  up  and  stretched  out  her  arms.  "Am  I  not  good- 
looking,  Peter?  Why  isn't  there  a  good  mirror  in  this 
horrid  old  bathroom?  It's  more  necessary  in  a  bathroom 
than  anywhere,  I  think." 

"Well,  I  can  see  you  without  it,"  said  Peter.  "And  I 
quite  agree,  Julie,  you're  divine.  You  are  like  Aphrodite, 
sprung  from  the  foam." 

She  laughed.  "Well,  spring  from  the  foam  yourself,  old 
dear,  and  come  and  dress.  I'm  getting  cold.  I'm  going  to 
put  on  the  most  thrilling  set  of  undies  this  morning  that 
you  ever  saw.     The  cami-  .  .  ." 

Peter  put  his  fingers  in  his  ears.  "Julie,"  he  said,  "in 
one  minute  I  shall  blush  for  shame.  Go  and  put  on  some- 
thing, if  you  must,  but  don't  talk  about  it.  You're  like  a 
Greek  goddess  just  now,  but  if  you  begin  to  quote  advertise- 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  289 

ments  you'll  be  like — well,  I  don't  know  what  you'll  be  like, 
but  I  won't  have  it,  anyway.  Go  on ;  get  away  witlj  you.  I 
ahall  throw  the  sponge  at  you  if  you  don't." 

She  departed  merrily,  singing  to  herself,  and  Peter  lay  a 
/ittle  longer  in  the  soft  warm  water.  He  dwelt  lovingly  on 
the  girl  in  the  other  room;  he  told  himself  he  was  the  hap- 
piest man  alive;  and  yet  he  got  out  of  the  bath,  without 
apparent  rhyme  or  reason,  with  a  little  sigh.  But  he  was 
only  H  little  quicker  than  most  men  in  that.  Julie  had 
attained  and  was  radiant ;  Peter  had  attained — and  siglied. 

She  was  entirely  respectable  by  contrast  when  he  rejoined 
her,  shaven  and  half-dressed,  a  little  later,  but  just  as  delect- 
able, as  she  stood  in  soft  white  things  putting  up  her  hair 
with  her  bare  arms.  He  went  over  and  kissed  her.  "You 
never  said  good-morning  at  all,  you  wretch,"  he  said. 

She  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  again 
tnany  times.  "Purposely,"  she  said.  "I  shall  never  say 
good-morning  to  you  while  you're  horribly  unshaven — never. 
You  can't  help  waking  up  like  it,  I  know,  but  it's  your  duty 
to  get  clean  and  decent  as  quickly  as  possible.     See?" 

"I'll  try  alzvays  to  remember,"  said  Peter,  and  stressed  the 
word. 

She  held  him  for  an  appreciable  second  at  that;  then 
loosed  him  with  a  quick  movement.  "Go,  now,"  she  said, 
"and  order  breakfast  to  be  brought  up  to  our  sitting-room. 
It  must  be  a  very  nice  breakfast.  There  must  be  kippers 
and  an  omelette.    Go  quick;  I'll  be  ready  in  half  a  minute." 

"I  believe  that  girl  is  sweeping  the  room,"  said  Peter. 
"Am  I  to  appear  like  this?  You  must  remember  that  we're 
not  in  France." 

"Put  on  a  dressing-gown  then.  You  haven't  got  one 
here  ?  Then  put  on  my  kimono ;  you'll  look  exceedingly 
beautiful.  .  .  .  Really,  Peter,  you  do.  Our  island  will  have 
to  be  Japan,  because  kimonos  suit  you.  But  I  shall  never 
live  to  reach  it  if  you  don't  order  that  breakfast." 

Peter  departed,  and  had  a  satisfactory  interview  with  the 
lelephone  in  the  presence  of  the  maid.     He  returned  with 


290 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER 


a  cigarette  between  his  lips,  smiling,  and  Julie  turned  to 
survey  him. 

"Peter,  come  here.  Have  you  kissed  that  girl?  I  believe 
you  have!  How  dare  you?  Talk  about  being  shameless, 
with  me  here  in  the  next  room!" 

"I  thought  you  never  minded  such  things,  Julie.  You've 
told  me  to  kiss  girls  before  now.  And  you  said  that  you'd 
always  allow  your  husband  complete  liberty — now,  didn't 
you  ?" 

Julie  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  heaved  a  mock  sigh. 
"What  incredible  creatures  are  men !"  she  exclaimed. 
"Must  I  mean  everything  I  say,  Solomon?  Is  there  no 
ditlerence  between  this  flat  and  that  miserable  old  hotel  in 
Caudcbcc?  And  last,  but  not  least,  have  you  promised  to 
forsake  all  other  and  cleave  unto  me  as  long  as  we  both 
shall  live?  If  you  had  promised  it,  I'd  know  you  couldn't 
possibly  keep  it ;  but  as  it  is,  I  have  hopes." 

This  was  too  much  for  Peter.  He  dropped  into  the  posi- 
tion that  she  had  grown  to  love  to  see  liim  in,  and  he  put 
his  arms  round  her  waist,  looking  up  at  her  laughingly. 
"lUit  you  will  marry  me,  Julie,  won't  you?"  he  demanded. 

Before  his  eyes,  a  lingering  trace  of  that  old  look  crept 
back  into  her  face.  She  put  her  hands  beneath  his  chin,  and 
said  no  word,  till  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

'■Julie,  Julie,  my  darling."  he  said,  "you  must." 

"Must,  Peter?"  she  queried,  a  little  wistfully  he  thought. 

"Yes,  must;  but  say  you  want  to,  say  you  will,  Julie!" 

"I  want  to,  Peter,"  she  said — "oh,  my  dear,  you  don't 
know,  you  can't  know,  how  much.  The  form  is  nothing  to 
me,  but  I  want  you — if  I  can  keep  you." 

"If  you  can  keep  me!"  echoed  Peter,  and  it  was  as  if 
an  ice-cold  finger  had  suddenly  been  laid  on  his  heart.  For 
one  second  he  saw  what  might  be.  But  he  banished  it. 
"What!"  he  exclaimed.  "Cannot  you  trust  me,  Julie? 
Don't  you  know  I  love  you  ?  Don't  you  know  I  want  to 
make  you  the  very  centre  of  my  being,  Julie?" 

"I  know,  dearest,"  she  whispered,  and  he  had  never  heard 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  291 

her  speak  so  before.     "You  want,  that  is  one  thing;  you 
can,  that  is  another." 

Peter  stared  up  at  her.  He  felt  hke  a  little  child  who 
kneels  at  the  feet  of  a  mother  whom  it  sees  as  infinitely 
loving,  infinitely  wise,  infinitely  old.  And,  like  a  child,  he 
buried  his  head  in  her  lap.  "Oh,  Julie,"  he  said,  "you  must 
marry  me.  I  want  you  so  that  I  can't  tell  you  how  much. 
I  don't  know*  what  you  mean.  Say,"  he  said,  looking  up 
again  and  clasping  her  tightly — "say  you'll  marry  me,  Julie !" 

She  sprang  up  with  a  laugh.  "Peter,"  she  said,  "you're 
Mid-Victorian.  You  are  actually  proposing  to  me  upon 
your  knees.  If  I  could  curtsy  or  faint  I  would,  but  I  can't. 
Every  scrap  of  me  is  modern,  down  to  Venns'  cami-knickers 
that  you  wouldn't  let  me  talk  about.  .  Let's  go  and  eat  kip- 
pers ;  I'm  dying  for  them.    Come  on,  old  Solomon." 

He  got  up  more  slowly,  half -smiling,  for  who  could  resist 
Julie  in  that  mood?  But  he  made  one  more  effort.  He 
caught  her  hand.  "But  just  say  'Yes'  Julie,"  he  said — "just 
'Yes.'  " 

She  snatched  her  hand  away.  "Maybe  I  will  tell  you  on 
Monday  morning,"  she  said,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

As  he  finished  dressing,  he  heard  her  singing  in  the  next 
room,  and  then  talking  to  the  maid.  When  he  entered  the 
sitting-room  the  girl  came  out,  and  he  saw  that  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.  He  went  in  and  looked  sharply  at  Julie ; 
there  was  a  suspicion  of  moisture  in  hers  also.  "Oh,  Peter," 
she  said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm  as  the  door  closed,  "why 
didn't  you  tell  me  about  Jack?  I'm  going  out  immediately 
after  breakfast  to  buy  her  the  best  silver  photo- frame  I  can 
find,  see?  And  now  come  and  eat  your  kippers.  They're 
half-cold,  I  expect.    I  thought  you  were  never  coming." 

So  began  a  dream-like  day  to  Peter.  Julie  was  the  centre 
of  it.  He  followed  her  into  shops,  and  paid  for  her  pur- 
chases and  carried  her  parcels:  he  climbed  with  her  on. to 
buses,  which  she  said  she  preferred  to  taxis  in  the  day- 
time; he  listened  to  her  talk,  and  he  did  his  best  to  find  out 
what  she  wanted  and  get  just  that  for  her.    They  lunched, 


292  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

at  her  request,  at  an  old-fashioned,  sober  restaurant  in 
Regent  Street,  tliat  gave  one  the  impression  of  eating  lunch- 
eon in  a  Georgian  dining-room,  in  some  private  house  of 
great  stolidity  and  decorum.  When  Julie  had  said  that  she 
wanted  such  a  place  Peter  had  been  tickled  to  think  how 
she  would  behave  in  it.  But  she  speedily  enlightened  him. 
She  drew  oti  her  gloves  with  an  air.  She  did  not  laugh 
once.  She  did  not  chat  to  the  waiter.  She  did  not  hurry 
in,  nor  demand  the  wine-list,  nor  call  him  Solomon.  She 
did  not  commit  one  single  Colonial  solecism  at  table,  as 
Peter  had  haled  himself  for  half  thinking  that  she  might. 
Yet  she  never  had  looked  prettier,  he  thought,  and  even 
there  he  caught  glances  which  suggested  that  others  might 
think  so  too.  And  if  she  talked  less  than  usual,  so  did  he, 
for  his  mind  was  very  busy.  In  the  old  days  it  was  almost 
just  such  a  wife  as  Julie  now  iliat  he  would  have  wanted. 
But  did  he  want  the  old  days?  Could  he  go  back  to  them? 
Could  he  don  the  clerical  frock  coat  and  with  it  the  clerical 
system  and  outlook  of  St.  John's?  He  knew,  as  he  sat  tiiere, 
that  not  only  he  could  not,  but  that  he  would  not.  What, 
then?  It  was  almost  as  if  Julie  suggested  tliat  the  alternative 
was  madcap  days,  such  as  that  little  scene  in  the  bathroom 
suggested.  He  looked  at  her,  and  thought  of  it  again,  and 
smiled  at  the  incongruity  of  it,  there.  But  even  as  he  smiled 
the  cold  whisper  of  dread  insinuated  itself  again,  small  and 
slight  as  it  was.  Would  such  days  fill  his  life?  Could  they 
ofTer  that  which  should  seize  on  his  heart,  and  hold  it? 

He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  of  will,  poured  himself 
another  glass  of  wine,  and  drank  it  down.  The  generous, 
full-bodied  stutT  warmed  him,  and  he  glanced  at  his  wrist- 
watch.  "I  say,"  he  said,  "we  shall  be  late,  Julie,  and  I 
don't  want  to  miss  one  scrap  of  this  show.  Have  you  fin- 
ished?    A  little  more  wine?" 

Julie  was  watching  him,  he  thought,  as  he  spoke,  and  she, 
too,  seemed  to  him  to  make  a  little  effort.  "I  will,  Peter," 
she  said,  not  at  all  as  she  had  spoken  there  before — "a.  full 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  293 

glass  too.  One  wants  to  be  in  a  good  mood  for  the  Coliseum. 
Well,  dear  old  thing,  cheerio !" 

Outside  he  demanded  a  taxi.  "I  must  have  it,  Julie,"  he 
said.  "I  want  to  drive  up,  and  have  the  old  buffer  in  gold 
braid  open  the  door  for  me.     Have  a  cigarette?" 

She  took  one,  and  laughed  as  they  settled  into  the  car.  "I 
know  the  feeling,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "And  you  want  to 
stroll  languidly  up  the  red  carpet,  and  pass  by  the  pictures 
of  chorus-girls  as  if  you  were  so  accustomed  to  the  real 
thing  that  really  the  pictures  were  rather  borin',  don't  you 
know.  And  you  want  to  make  eyes  at  the  programme-girl, 
and  give  a  half-crown  tip  when  they  open  the  box,  and  take 
off  your  British  warm  in  full  view  of  the  audience,  and 
•  •  • 

"Kiss  you,"  said  Peter  uproariously,  suiting  the  action  to 
the  word.  "Good  Lord,  Julie,  you're  a  marvel !  No  more 
of  those  old  restaurants  for  me.  We  dine  at  our  hotel  to- 
night, in  the  big  public  room  near  the  band,  and  we  drink 
champagne." 

"And  you  put  the  cork  in  my  stocking?"  she  queried, 
stretching  out  her  foot. 

He  pushed  his  hand  up  her  skirt  and  down  to  the  warm 
place  beneath  the  gay  garter  that  she  indicated,  and  he 
kissed  her  passionately  again.  "It  doesn't  matter  now,"  he 
said.  "I  have  more  of  you  than  that.  Why,  that's  nothing 
to  me  now,  Julie.    Oh,  how  I  love  you !" 

She  pushed  him  off,  and  snatched  her  foot  away  also, 
laughing  gaily.  "I'm  getting  cheap,  am  I?"  she  said.  "We'll 
see.  You're  going  to  have  a  damned  rotten  time  in  the 
theatre,  my  dear.  Not  another  kiss,  and  I  shall  be  as  prim 
as  a  Quaker." 

The  car  stopped.  "You  couldn't,"  he  laughed,  helping 
her  out.  "And  what  is  more,  I  shan't  let  you  be,  I've  got 
you,  old  darling,  and  I  propose  to  keep  you,  what's  more." 
He  took  her  arm  resolutely.  "Come  along.  We're  going 
to  be  confoundedly  late." 


294  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

Theirs  was  a  snug  little  box,  one  of  the  new  ones,  placed 
as  in  a  French  theatre.  The  great  place  was  nearly  dark  as 
they  entered,  except  for  the  blaze  of  light  that  shone  through 
the  curtain.  The  odour  of  cigarette-smoke  and  scent  greeted 
thera,  with  the  rustle  of  dresses  and  the  subdued  sound  of 
gay  talk.  The  band  struck  up.  Then,  after  the  rolling  over- 
ture, the  curtain  ran  swiftly  up,  and  a  smart  young  person 
tripped  on  the  stage  in  the  limelight  and  made  great  play 
of  swinging  petticoats. 

Julie  had  no  remembrance  of  her  promised  severity  at  any 
rate.  She  hummed  airs,  and  sang  choruses,  and  laughed, 
and  was  thrilled,  exactly  as  she  should  have  been,  while  the 
music  and  the  panorama  went  on  and  wrapped  them  round 
with  glamour,  as  it  was  meant  to  do.  She  cheered  the 
patriotic  pictures  and  Peter  with  her,  till  he  felt  no  end  of  a 
fellow  to  be  in  uniform.  The  people  in  front  of  them 
glaoccd  round  amusedly  now  and  again,  and  as  like  as  not 
Julie  would  be  discovered  sitting  there  demurely,  her  child's 
face  all  innocence,  and  a  big  chocolate  held  between  her 
fingers  at  her  mouth.  Peter  would  lean  back  in  his  corner 
convulsed  at  her,  and  without  moving  a  muscle  of  her  face 
she  would  put  her  leg  up  on  his  seat  and  push  him.  One 
scene  they  watched  well  back  in  their  dark  box,  his  arm 
round  her  waist.  It  was  a  little  pathetic  love-play  and  well 
done,  and  in  the  gloom  he  played  with  the  curls  at  her  cars 
and  neck  with  his  lips,  and  held  her  hand. 

When  it  was  over  they  went  out  with  the  crowd.  The 
January  day  was  done,  but  it  was  bewildering  for  all  that 
to  come  out  into  real  life.  There  was  no  romance  for  the 
moment  on  the  stained  street,  and  in  the  passing  traftlc.  The 
gold  braid  of  the  hall  commissionaire  looked  tawdry,  and 
the  pictures  of  ballet-girls  but  vulgar.  It  is  the  common 
experience,  but  each  time  one  feels  it  there  is  a  new  surprise. 
Julie  had  her  own  remedy: 

'The  liveliest  tea-room  you  can  find,  Peter,"  she  ^ie- 
manded. 

"It  will  be  hard  to  beat  our  own,"  said  Peter. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  295 

"Well,  away  there,  then;  let's  get  back  to  a  band  again, 
anyhow." 

The  great  palm-lounge  was  full  of  people,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  it  did  not  seem  as  if  they  would  iind  seats ;  but  then 
Julie  espied  a  half-empty  table,  and  they  made  for  it.  It 
stood  away  back  in  a  corner,  with  two  wicker  armchairs 
before  it,  and,  behind,  a  stationary  lounge  against  the  wall 
overhung  by  a  huge  palm.  The  lounge  was  occupied.  "We'll 
get  in  there  presently,"  whispered  Peter,  and  they  took  the 
chairs,  thankful  in  the  crowded  place  to  get  seated  at  all. 

"Oh,  it  was  topping,  Peter,"  said  Julie.  "I  love  a  great 
place  like  that.  1  almost  wish  we  had  had  dress-circle  seats 
or  stalls  out  amongst  the  people.  But  I  don't  know  ;  that  box 
was  delicious.  Did  you  see  how  that  old  fossil  in  front  kept 
looking  round?  I  made  eyes  at  him  once,  deliberately — 
you  know,  like  this,"  and  she  looked  sideways  at  Peter 
with  subtle  invitation  just  hinted  in  her  eyes.  "I  thought 
h*;  would  have  apoplexy — I  did,  really." 

"It's  a  good  thing  I  didn't  notice,  Julie.  Even  now  I 
should  hate  to  see  you  look  like  that,  say,  at  Donovan.  You 
do  it  too  well.  Oh,  here's  the  tea.  Praise  the  Lord !  I'm 
dying  for  a  cup.  You  can  have  all  the  cakes;  I've  smoked 
too  much." 

"Wouldn't  you  prefer  a  whisky?" 

"No,  not  now — afterwards.    What's  that  they're  playing?" 

They  listened,  Julie  seemingly  intent,  and  Peter,  who  soon 
gave  up  the  attempt  to  recognise  the  piece,  glanced  sideways 
at  the  couple  on  the  lounge.  They  did  not  notice  him.  He 
took  them  both  in  and  caught — he  could  not  help  it — a  few 
words. 

She  was  thirty-five,  he  guessed,  slightly  made-up,  but 
handsome  and  full  figured,  a  woman  of  whom  any  man 
might  have  been  proud.  He  was  an  officer^  in  Major's  uni- 
form, and  he  was  smoking  a  cigarette  impatiently  and  staring 
down  the  lounge.  She,  on  the  other  hand,  had  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him  as  if  to  read  every  expression  on  his  face,  which 
was  heavy  and  sullen  and  mutinous. 


296  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

"Is  that  final,  then,  George?"  she  said. 

"I  tell  you  1  can't  help  it ;  I  promised  I'd  dine  with  Car- 
stairs  to-night." 

A  look  swept  across  her  face.  Peter  could  not  altogether 
read  it.  It  was  not  merely  anger,  or  pique,  or  disappoint- 
ment ;  it  certainly  was  not  merely  grief.  There  was  all  that 
in  it,  hut  there  was  more.  And  she  said — he  only  just  caught 
the  sentence  of  any  of  their  words,  hut  there  was  the  world 
of  bitter  meaning  in  it: 

"Quite  alone,  I  supix)se?  And  there  will  be  no  necessity 
for  me  to  sit  up?" 

"Peter,"  said  Julie  suddenly,  "the  tea's  cold.  Take  me 
upstairs,  will  you?  we  can  have  better  sent  up." 

lie  turned  to  her  in  surprise,  and  then  saw  that  she  too 
had  heard  and  seen. 

"Right,  dear,"  he  said.  "It  is  beastly  stufT.  I  think,  after 
all,  I'd  prefer  a  sjKit,  and  I  believe  you  would  too." 

He  rose  carefully,  not  looking  towards  the  lounge,  like  a 
man ;  and  Julie  goi  up  too,  glancing  at  that  other  couple 
with  such  an  ordinary  merely  interested  look  that  Peter 
smiled  to  himself  to  sec  it.  They  threaded  their  way  in 
necessary  silence  through  the  tables  and  chairs  to  the  doors, 
and  said  hardly  a  word  in  the  lift.  But  in  their  siiting-room, 
cosy  as  ever,  Julie  turned  to  him  in  a  passion  of  emotion  such 
as  he  had  scarcely  dreamed  could  exist  even  in  her. 

"Oh,  you  darling,"  she  said,  "pick  me  up,  and  sit  me  in 
that  chair  on  your  knee.  Love  mc,  Peter,  love  me  as  you've 
never  loved  me  before.  Hold  me  tight,  tight,  Peter — hurt 
me,  kiss  me.  love  mc,  say  you  love  me  .  .  ."  and  she  choked 
her  own  utterance,  and  buried  her  face  on  his  shoulder, 
straining  her  body  to  his,  twining  her  slim  foot  and  leg 
round  his  ankle.  In  a  moment  she  was  up  again,  however, 
and  glanced  at  the  clock.  "Peter,  we  must  dress  early  and 
dine  early,  mustn't  we?  The  thing  begins  at  seven-forty- 
five.  Now  I  know  what  we'll  do.  First,  give  me  a  drink, 
a  long  one,  Solomon,  and  take  one  yourself.  Thanks. 
That'll  do.     Here's  the  best.  .  .  .     Oh,  that's  good,  Peter. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  i>97 

Can't  you  feel  it  running  through  you  and  electrifying  you? 
Now,  come" — she  seized  him  by  the  arm — "come  on  !  I'll 
tell  you  what  you've  got  to  do." 

Smiling,  though  a  little  astonished  at  this  outburst,  Peter 
allowed  himself  to  be  pulled  into  the  bedroom.  She  sat 
down  on  the  bed  and  pushed  out  a  foot.  "Take  it  off,  you 
darling,  while  I  take  down  my  hair,"  she  said. 

He  knelt  and  undid  the  laces  and  took  off  the  brown  shoes 
one  by  one,  feeling  her  little  foot  through  the  silk  as  he  did 
so.  Then  he  looked  up.  She  had  pulled  out  a  comb  or  two, 
and  her  hair  was  hanging  down.  With  swift  fingers  she 
finished  her  work,  and  was  waiting  for  him.  He  caught  her 
in  his  arms,  and  she  buried  her  face  again.  "Oh,  Peter,  love 
me,  love  me!  Undress  me,  will  you?  I  want  you  to.  Play 
with  me,  own  me,  Peter.  See,  I  am  yours,  yours,  Peter,  all 
yours.  Am  1  worth  having,  Peter?  Do  you  want  more 
than  me?"  And  she  flung  herself  back  on  the  bed  in  her 
disorder,  the  little  ribbons  heaving  at  her  breast,  her  eyes 
afire,  her  cheeks  aflame. 

"Well,"  said  Peter,  an  hour  or  two  later,  "we've  got  to 
get  this  dinner  through  as  quickly  as  we've  ever  eaten  any- 
thing. You'll  have  to  digest  like  one  of  your  South  African 
ostriches.  I  say,"  he  said  to  the  waitress  in  a  confidential 
tone  and  with  a  smile,  "do  you  think  you  can  get  us  stuff  in 
ten  minutes  all  told?  We're  late  as  it  is,  and  we'll  miss  half 
the  theatre  else." 

"It  depends  what  you  order,"  said  the  girl,  rather  sharply. 
Then,  after  a  glance  at  them  both:  "See,  if  you'll  have 
what  I  say,  Pll  get  you  through  quick.  I  know  what's  on 
easiest.     Do  you  mind?" 

"The  very  thing,"  said  Peter ;  "and  send  the  wine-man 
over  on  your  way,  will  you  ?  How  will  that  do  ?"  he  added 
to  Julie. 

"I'll  risk  everything  to-night,  Peter,  except  your  smiling 
at  the  waitress,"  she  said.  "But  I  must  have  that  cham- 
pagne. There's  something  about  champagne  that  inspires 
confidence.    When  a  man  gives  you  the  gold  bottle  you  know 


>J98  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

that  he  is  really  serious,  or  as  serious  as  he  can  be,  which 
isn't  saying  much  for  most  men.  And  not  half  a  bottle; 
I've  had  half -bottles  heaps  of  times  at  tete-a-tete  dinners. 
It  always  means  indecision,  which  is  a  beastly  thing  in  any- 
one, and  especially  in  a  man.  It's  insulting,  for  one  thing. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Peter,  do  look  at  that  girl  over  there.  Do  you 
suppose  she  has  anything  on  underneath?  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  ask  her,  but  you  might,  you  know,  if  you  put  on 
that  smile  of  yours.  Do  walk  over,  beg  her  pardon,  and 
say  very  nicely:  'ICxcusc  me,  but  I'm  a  clmplain,  and  it's 
my  business  to  know  these  things.  I  see  you've  no  stays  on, 
but  have  you  a  bathing  costume?'" 

"Julie,  do  be  quiet;  someone  will  hear  you.  You  must 
remember  we're  in  England,  and  that  you're  talking 
English." 

"I  don't  care  a  damn  if  they  do,  Peter!  Oh,  here's  the 
champagne,  at  any  rate.  Oh,  and  some  soup.  Well,  that's 
something." 

"I've  got  tlie  fish  coming,"  said  the  girl,  "if  you  can  be 
ready  at  once." 

Julie  seized  her  spoon.  "I  suppose  I  mustn't  drink  it?'* 
she  said.  "I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  but  it  might  reflect  on  you,  Peter,  and  you're  looking  so 
immaculate  to-night.  By  the  way,  you've  never  had  that 
manicure.  Do  send  a  note  for  the  girl.  I'd  hide  in  the 
bathroom.  I'd  love  to  hear  you.  Peter,  if  I  only  thought 
you  would  do  it,  I'd  like  it  better  than  the  play.  What  is  the 
play,  by  the  way?  Zigzag f  Oh,  Zigzag."  (She  mimicked 
in  a  French  accent.)  "Well,  it  will  be  all  too  sadly  true  if 
I  leave  you  to  that  bottle  of  fizz  all  by  yourself.  Give  me 
another  glass,  please." 

"What  about  you?"  demanded  Peter.  "If  you're  like 
this  now.  Heaven  knows  what  you'll  be  by  the  time 
you've  had  half  of  this." 

"Peter,  you're  an  ignoramus.  Girls  like  me  never  take 
too  much.  We  began  early  for  one  thing,  and  we're  used  to 
it.     For  another,  the  more  a  girl  talks,  the  soberer  she  is. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  299 

She  talks  because  she's  thinking,  and  because  she  doesn't 
want  the  man  to  talk.  Now,  if  you  talked  to-night,  I  don't 
know  what  you  might  not  say.  You'd  probably  be  enor- 
mously sentimental,  and  I  hate  sentimental  people.  I  do, 
really.  Sentiment  is  wishy-washy,  isn't  it?  I  always  asso- 
ciate it  with  comedians  on  the  stage.  Look  over  there.  Do 
you  see  that  girl  in  the  big  droopy  hat  and  the  thin  hands? 
And  the  boy — one  must  say  'boy,'  I  suppose?  He's  a  little 
fat  and  slightly  bald,  and  he's  got  three  pips  up,  and  has 
had  them  for  a  long  time.  Well,  look  at  them.  He's  search- 
ing her  eyes,  he  is,  Peter,  really.  That's  how  it's  done :  you 
just  watch.  And  he  doesn't  know  if  he's  eating  pea-soup  or 
oyster-sauce.  And  she's  hoping  her  hat  is  drooping  just 
right,  and  that  he'll  notice  her  ring  is  on  the  wrong  finger, 
and  how  nice  one  would  look  in  the  right  place.  To  do  her 
justice,  she  isn't  thinking  much  about  dinner,  either ;  but 
that's  sinful  waste,  Peter,  in  the  first  place,  and  bad  for 
one's  tummy  in  the  second.  However,  they're  sentimental, 
they  are,  and  there's  a  fortune  in  it.  H  they  could  only 
bring  themselves  to  do  just  that  for  fifteen  minutes  at  the 
Alhambra  every  night,  they'd  be  the  most  popular  turn  in 
London." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  said  he;  "but  if  you  eat  so  fast 
and  talk  at  the  same  time,  you'll  pay  for  it  very  much  as 
you  think  they  will.     Have  you  finished?" 

"No,  I  haven't.  I  want  cheese-straws,  and  I  shall  sit 
here  till  I  get  them  or  till  the  whole  of  London  zigzags 
round  me." 

"I  say,"  said  Peter  to  their  waitress,  "if  you  possibly  can, 
fetch  us  cheese-straws  now.  Not  too  many,  but  quickly. 
Can  you?  The  lady  won't  go  without  them,  and  some- 
tliing  must  be  done." 

"Wouldn't  the  management  wait  if  you  telephoned,  Peter 
dear?"  inquired  Julie  sarcastically.  "Just  say  who  you  are, 
and  they  sure  will.  If  the  chorus  only  knew,  they'd  go  on 
strike  against  appearing  before  you  came,  or  tear  their  tights 
or  sometliing  dreadful  like  that,  so  that  they  couldn't  come 


300  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

on.  Ves,  now  I  am  ready.  One  wee  last  little  drop  of  tlie 
bubbly — I  see  it  there — and  I'll  sacrifice  cofTce  for  your 
sake.  Give  me  a  ci<^arctte,  though.  Thanks.  And  now  my 
wrap." 

She  rose,  the  cigarette  in  her  fingers,  smiling  at  him. 
Peter  hastily  followed,  walking  on  air.  He  was  beginning 
to  realise  how  often  he  failed  to  understand  Julie,  and  to 
see  how  completely  she  controlled  her  apparently  more  friv- 
olous moods;  but  he  loved  her  in  tiiem.  He  little  knew,  as 
he  followed  her  out,  the  tumult  of  thoughts  that  raced 
through  that  little  head  with  its  wealth  of  brown  hair.  He 
little  guessed  how  bravely  she  was  already  counting  the 
fleeting  minutes,  how  resolutely  keeping  grip  of  herself  in 
the  flood  which  threatened  to  sweep  her — how  gladly!— 
away. 

A  good  revue  must  be  a  pageant  of  music,  colour,  scenery, 
song,  dance,  humour,  and  the  imjx)ssible.  There  must  b* 
good  songs  in  it,  but  one  does  not  go  for  the  songs,  any 
more  than  one  goes  to  see  the  working  out  of  a  plot.  Strung' 
up  men,  forty-eight  hours  out  of  the  trenches,  with  every 
nerve  on  edge,  must  come  away  with  a  smile  of  satisfaction 
on  their  faces,  to  have  a  last  drink  at  home  and  sleep  like 
babies.  Women  who  have  been  on  nervous  tension  for 
months  must  be  able  to  go  there,  and  allow  their  tired  senses 
to  drink  in  the  feast  of  it  all,  so  that  they  too  may  go  home 
and  sleep.  And  in  a  sense  their  evening  meant  all  this  to 
Peter  and  Julie;  but  only  in  a  sense. 

They  both  of  them  bathed  in  the  performance.  The  pos- 
sible and  imjxDssible  scenes  came  and  went  in  a  bewildering 
variety,  till  one  had  the  feeling  that  one  was  asleep  and 
dreaming  the  incomprehensible  jumble  of  a  dream,  and,  as 
in  a  nice  dream,  one  knew  it  was  absurd,  but  did  not  care. 
The  magnificent,  brilliant  staging  dazzled  till  one  lay  back 
in  one's  chair  and  refused  to  name  the  colours  to  oneself 
or  admire  their  blending  any  more.  The  chorus-girls 
trooped  on  and  off  till  they  seemed  countless,  and  one  aban- 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  301 

doned  any  wish  to  pick  the  prettiest  and  follow  her  through. 
And  the  gay  palace  of  luxury,  with  its  hundreds  of  splendidly 
dressed  women,  its  men  in  uniform,  its  height  and  width  and 
gold  and  painting,  and  its  great  arching  roof,  where,  high 
above,  the  stirring  of  human  hearts  still  went  on,  took  to 
itself  an  atmosphere  and  became  sentient  with  humanity.  \ 

Julie  and  Peter  were  both  emotional  and  imaginative,  and 
they  were  spellbound  till  the  notes  of  the  National  Anthem 
roused  them.  Then,  with  the  commonplaces  of  departure, 
tliey  left  the  place.  "It's  so  near,"  said  Julie  in  the  crowd 
outside ;  "let's  walk  again." 

"The  other  pavement,  then,"  said  Peter,  and  they  crossed. 
It  was  cold,  and  Julie  clung  to  him,  and  they  walked  swiftly. 

At  the  entrance  Peter  suggested  an  hour  under  the  palms, 
but  Julie  pleaded  against  it.  "Why,  dear?"  she  said.  "It's 
so  cosy  upstairs,  and  we  have  all  we  want.  Besides,  the 
lounge  would  be  an  anti-climax ;  let's  go  up." 

They  went  up,  and  Julie  droi)ped  into  her  chair  while 
Peter  knelt  to  poke  the  fire.  Then  he  lit  a  cigarette,  and 
she  refused  one  for  once,  and  he  stood  there  looking  into 
the  flame. 

Julie  drew  a  deep  sigh.  "Wasn't  it  gorgeous,  Peter?" 
she  said.  "I  can't  help  it,  but  I  always  feel  I  want  it  to 
go  on  for  ever  and  ever.  Did  you  ever  see  Kismet?  That 
was  worse  even  than  this.  I  wanted  to  get  up  and  walk 
into  the  play.  These  modern  things  are  too  clever;  you 
know  they're  unreal,  and  yet  they  seem  to  be  real.  You 
know  you're  dreaming,  but  you  hate  to  wake  up.  I  could 
let  all  that  music  and  dancing  and  colour  go  on  round  me 
till  I  floated  away  and  away,  for  ever." 

Peter  said  nothing.    He  continued  to' stare  into  the  fire. 

"What  do  you  feel?"  demanded  Julie. 

Peter  drew  hard  on  his  cigarette,  and  then  he  blew  out 
the  smoke.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "Yes,  I  do,"  he 
added  quickly ;  "I  feel  I  want  to  get  up  and  preach  a  sermon." 

"Good  Lord,  Peter!  what  a  dreadful  sensation  that  must 


302  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

he!  Don't  begin  now,  will  you.''  I'm  beginning  to  wLsh 
we'd  gone  into  ihc  lounge  after  all;  you  surely  couldn't 
have  preached  there." 

Peter  did  not  smile.  He  went  on  as  if  she  had  not 
siKjken.  "Or  write  a  great  novel,  or,  better  still,  a  great 
play,"  he  said. 

"What  would  be  the  subject,  then,  you  Solomon,  or  the 
title,  anyway  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter  dreamily.  "All  Afeti  arc  Grass, 
The  li'ay  of  all  flesh — no,  neither  of  those  is  gotnl,  and 
besides,  one  at  least  is  taken.  I  know,"  he  added  suddenly, 
"I  would  call  it  lixcluingc,  that's  all.  My  word,  Julie,  I 
believe  I  could  do  it."  He  straightened  himself,  and  walked 
across  the  room  and  back  again,  once  or  twice.  "I  believe  I 
could:  I  feel  it  tingling  in  me;  but  it's  all  formless,  if  you 
understand;  Pvc  no  plot.  It's  just  what  I  feel  as  I  sit 
tlierc  in  a  theatre,  as  wc  did  just  now." 

Julie  leaned  forward  and  took  the  cigarette  she  had  just 
refused.  She  lit  it  herself  with  a  half -burnt  match,  and 
Peter  stood  and  watched  her,  but  Imrdly  saw  what  she  was 
doing.  She  was  as  conscious  of  his  prcoccu{vition  as  if  it 
were  something  physical  about  him. 

"ICxplain,  my  dear."  she  said,  leaning  back  and  staring 
into  the  fire. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can,"  he  replied,  and  she  felt  as  if 
he  did  not  speak  to  her.  "It's  the  bigness  of  it  all,  the 
beauty,  the  triumphant  success.  It's  drawn  that  great 
house  full,  lured  them  in,  the  thousands  of  them,  and  it 
does  so  night  after  night.  Tired  jKrople  go  there  to  be 
refreshed,  and  sad  |>eople  to  be  made  gay,  and  people  sick 
of  life  to  laugh  and  forget  it.  It's  the  world's  big  anodyne. 
It  olTers  a  great  exchange.  And  all  for  a  few  shillings,  Julie, 
and  for  a  few  hours.  The  sensation  lingers,  but  one  has  to 
go  again  and  again.  It  tricks  one  into  thinking,  almost,  that 
it's  the  real  thing,  that  one  can  dance  like  mayflies  in  the  sun. 
Only,  Julie,  there  comes  an  hour  when  down  sinks  the  sun, 
and  what  of  the  mayflies  then?" 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  303 

Julie  shifted  her  head  ever  so  little.  "Go  on,"  she  said, 
looking  up  intently  at  him. 

He  did  not  notice  her,  but  her  words  roused  him.  He 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  again,  and  her  eyes  followed 
him.  "Why,"  he  said  excitedly,  "don't  you  see  that  it's  a 
fraudulent  exchange?  It's  a  fraudulent  exchange  that  it 
oflfers,  and  it  itself  is  an  exchange  as  fraudulent  as  that 
which  our  modern  world  is  making.  No,  not  our  modern 
world  only.  We  talk  so  big  of  our  modernity,  when  it's  all 
less  tlian  the  dust — this  year's  leaves,  no  better  than  last 
year's,  and  fallen  to-morrow.  Rome  offered  the  same  ex- 
cliange,  and  even  a  better  one,  I  think — the  blood  and  lust 
and  conflict  of  the  amphitheatre.  But  they're  both  ex- 
changes, ofTered  instead  of  the  great  thing,  the  only  great 
thing." 

"Which  is,  Peter?" 

"God,  of  course — Almighty  God;  Jesus,  if  you  will,  but 
I'm  not  in  a  mood  for  the  tenderness  of  that.  It's  God  Him- 
self Who  otTers  tired  and  sad  people,  and  people  sick  of 
life,  no  anodyne,  no  mere  rest,  but  stir  and  fight  and  the 
thrill  of  things  nobly  done — nobly  tried,  Julie,  even  if  nobly 
failed.  Can't  you  see  it?  And  you  and  I  to-night  have 
been  looking  at  what  the  world  offers — in  exchange." 

He  ceased  and  dropped  into  a  chair  the  other  side  of  the 
fire.  A  silence  fell  on  them.  Then  Julie  gave  a  little 
shiver.  "Peter,  dear,"  she  said  tenderly,  "I'm  a  little  tired 
and  cold." 

He  was  up  at  once  and  bending  over  her.  "My  darling, 
what  a  beast  I  am !  I  clean  forgot  you  for  a  minute.  What 
will  you  have?  What  about  a  hot  toddy?  Shall  I  make 
one?"  he  demanded,  smiling.  "Donovan  taught  me  how,  and 
I'm  really  rather  good  at  it." 

She  smiled  back  at  him,  and  put  her  hand  up  to  smooth  his 
hair.  "That  would  be  another  exchange,  Peter,"  she  said, 
"and  I  don't  want  it.  Only  one  thing  can  warm  me  to-night 
and  give  me  rest." 

He  read  what  she  meant  in  her  eyes,  and  knelt  beside  the 


304  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

chair  to  put  his  arms  around  her.  She  leaned  her  face  on 
his  shoulder,  and  returned  the  kisses  that  he  showered  upon 
her.  "Poor  mayflies,"  she  said  to  herself,  "how  they  love 
to  dance  in  tlic  siml" 


CHAPTER  IX 

EVER  after  that  next  day,  the  Saturday,  will  remain  in 
Peter's  memory  as  a  time  by  itself,  of  special  signifi- 
cance, but  a  sijL^nificance,  except  for  one  incident,  very  hard 
to  place.  It  began,  indeed,  very  quietly,  and  very  happily. 
They  breakfasted  again  in  their  own  room,  and  Julie  was 
in  one  of  her  subdued  moods,  if  one  ever  could  say  she  was 
subdued.  Afterwards  Peter  lit  a  cigarette  and  strolled 
over  to  the  window.  "It's  a  beastly  day,"  he  said,  "cloudy, 
cold,  windy,  and  going  to  rain,  I  think.  What  shall  we  do? 
Snow  up  in  the  hotel  all  the  time?" 

"No."  said  Julie  emphatically,  "something  quite  difTercnt. 
You  shall  show  me  some  of  the  real  lojndon  sights,  West- 
minster Abbey  to  begin  with.  Then  we'll  drive  along  the 
Embankment  and  you  shall  tell  me  what  ever\'thing  is,  and 
n'e'll  go  and  see  anything  else  you  suggest.  I  don't  suppose 
you  realise,  Peter,  that  I'm  all  but  absolutely  ignorant  of 
London." 

He  turned  and  smiled  on  her.  "And  you  really  want  to 
see  these  things?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do.  You  don't  think  I  suggested  it 
for  your  benefit?  But  if  it  will  make  you  any  happier,  I'll 
flatter  you  a  bit.  I  want  to  see  those  things  now,  with  you, 
partly  because  I'm  never  likely  to  find  anyone  who  can  show 
me  them  better.     Now  then.     Aren't  you  pleased?" 

At  that,  then,  they  started.  Westminster  came  first,  and 
they  wandered  all  over  it  and  saw  as  much  as  the  conditions 
of  war  had  left  for  the  public  to  see.  It  amused  Peter  to 
show  Julie  the  things  that  seemed  to  him  to  have  a  particu- 
lar interest — the  Chapter  House,  St.  Faith's  Chapel,  the 
tomb  of  the  Confessor,  and  so  on.    She  made  odd  comments. 

30s 


3o6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

In  St.  Faith's  she  said:  "I  don't  say  many  prayers,  Peter, 
but  here  I  couldn't  say  one." 

"Why  not  ?"  he  demanded. 

"Because  it's  too  private,"  she  said  quaintly.  "I  should 
think  I  was  pretending  to  be  a  saint  if  I  went  past  everybody 
else  and  the  vergers  and  things  into  a  little  place  like  this 
all  by  myself.  Everyone  would  know  that  I  was  doing 
something  which  most  people  don't  do.  See?  Why  don't 
people  pray  all  over  the  church,  as  they  do  in  France  in  a 
cathedral,  Peter?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Come  on,"  he  said;  "your 
notions  are  all  topsy-turvy,  Julie.  Come  and  look  at  tlie 
monuments." 

They  wandered  down  the  transept,  and  observed  the 
majesty  of  England  in  stone,  robed  in  togas,  declaiming  to 
the  Almighty,  and  obviously  convinced  that  He  would  be 
intensely  interested ;  or  jicrhaps  dying  in  the  arms  of  a 
semi-dressed  female,  with  funeral  urns  or  ships  or  cannon 
in  the  background ;  or,  at  least  in  one  case,  crouching  hope- 
lessly, before  the  dart  of  a  triumphant  death.  Julie  was 
certainly  impressed.  "They  arc  all  like  ancient  Romans, 
Peter,"  she  .said,  "and  much  nu>re  striking  than  those  Car- 
dinals and  Bishops  and  Kings,  kneeling  at  prayer,  in  Rouen 
Cathedral.  But,  still,  they  were  not  ancient  Romans,  were 
they?  They  were  all  Christains,  I  suppose.  Is  there  a 
Christian  monument  anywhere  about?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter,  "but  we'll  walk  round  and 
see." 

They  made  a  lengthy  pilgrimage,  and  finally  Peter 
arrested  her.     "Here's  one,"  he  said. 

A  Georgian  Bishop  in  bas-relief  looked  down  on  them, 
fat  and  comfortable.  In  front  of  him  was  a  monstrous  cup, 
and  a  plate  piled  witli  biggish  squares  of  stone.  Julie  did 
not  realise  what  it  was.  "What's  he  doing  with  all  that 
lump-sugar?"  she  demanded. 

Peter  was  really  a  bit  horrified.  "You're  an  appalling 
pagan,"  he  said.    "Come  away !"    And  they  came. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  307 

They  roamed  along  the  Embankment.  Julie  was  as  curious 
as  a  child,  and  wanted  to  know  all  about  everything,  from 
Boadicca,  Cleopatra's  Needle,  and  the  Temple  Church,  to 
Dewar's  Whisky  Works  and  the  Hotel  Cecil.  Thereabouts, 
Julie  asked  the  name  of  the  squat  tower  and  old  red-brick 
buildings  opposite,  and  when  she  heard  it  was  Lambeth 
Palace  instantly  demanded  to  visit  it.  Peter  was  doubtful 
if  they  could,  but  they  crossed  to  see,  and  they  were  shown 
a  good  deal  by  the  courtesy  of  the  authorities.  The  Arch- 
bishop was  away,  to  Peter's  great  relief,  for  as  likely  as 
not  Julie  would  have  insisted  on  an  introduction,  but  they 
saw  the  chapel  and  the  dining-hall  amongst  other  things. 
The  long  line  of  portraits  fascinated  her,  but  not  as  it 
fascinated  Peter.  The  significance  of  the  change  in  the 
costumes  of  the  portraits  struck  him  for  the  first  time — first 
the  cope  and  mitre  and  cross,  then  the  skull-cap  and  the 
tippet,  then  the  balloon-sleeves  and  the  wig,  then  the  coat 
and  breeches  and  white  cravat,  then  the  academic  robes,  and 
then  a  purple  cassock.  Its  interest  to  Julie  was  other,  how- 
ever. "Peter,"  she  whispered,"  perhaps  you'll  be  there  one 
day." 

He  looked  at  her  sharply,  but  she  was  not  mocking  him, 
and,  marvelling  at  her  simplicity  and  honest  innocence,  he 
relaxed  into  a  smile.  "Not  very  likely,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"In  other  days  a  pleasant  underground  cell  in  the  Lollards' 
Tower  would  have  been  more  likely." 

Then,  of  course,  Julie  must  see  the  famous  tower,  and  see 
a  little  of  it  they  did.  She  wanted  to  know  what  LoUardy 
was;  their  guide  attempted  an  explanation.  Julie  was  soon 
bored.  "I  can't  see  why  people  make  such  a  bother  about 
such  things,"  she  said.  "A  man's  religion  is  his  own  busi- 
ness, surely,  and  he  must  settle  it  for  himself.  Don't  you 
think  so,  Peter?" 

"Is  it  his  own  business  only  ?"  he  asked  gravely. 

"Whose  else  should  it  be  ?"  she  demanded. 

"God's,"  said  Peter  simply. 

Julie  stared  at  him  and  sighed.    "You're  very  odd,  Peter," 


3o8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

she  said,  "but  you  do  say  things  that  strike  one  as  being 
true.    Go  on." 

"Oh,  ilicrc's  no  more  to  say,"  said  Peter,  "except,  jierhaps, 
this:  if  anyone  or  any  Church  honestly  behevcd  that  God 
had  coniniitted  His  share  in  the  business  to  them — well,  then 
he  might  justifiably  feel  that  he  or  it  had  a  good  deal  to  do 
with  the  settling  of  another  man's  religion.  Hence  this 
tower,  Julie,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  my  dear,  hence  me,  past 
and  present.     But  come  on." 

She  lOok  liis  arm  with  a  little  shiver  which  he  was  he- 
ginning  to  notice  from  time  to  time  in  her.  "It's  a  horrible 
idea,  Peter,"  she  said.     "Yes,  let's  go." 

So  their  taxi  took  them  to  Buckingham  Palace  and  there- 
abouts, and  by  ch;mce  they  saw  the  King  and  Oucen.  Their 
Majesties  drove  by  smartly  in  morning  dress  with  a  couple 
of  policemen  ahead,  and  a  few  women  waved  handkerchiefs, 
and  Peter  came  to  the  salute,  and  Julie  cheered.  The  Queen 
turned  towards  where  she  was  standing,  and  bowed,  and 
Peter  noticed,  amazed,  that  the  eyes  of  the  Colonial  girl  were 
wet,  and  that  she  did  not  attempt  to  hide  it. 

He  had  to  (juestion  her.  "I  shouldn't  have  thought  you'd 
liavc  felt  alxjut  royalty  like  that.  Julie,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  do,"  she  said,  "and  I  don't  care  what  you  say. 
Only  I  wish  they'd  go  about  with  the  Life  Ciuards.  The 
King's  a  King  to  me.  I  suppose  he  is  only  a  man,  but  I 
don't  want  to  think  of  him  so.  He  stands  for  the  Empire 
and  for  the  Hag,  and  he  stands  for  England  too.  I'd  obey 
that  man  almost  in  anything,  right  or  wrong,  but  I  don't 
know  that  I'd  ol>ey  anyone  else. 

"Then  you're  a  survival  of  the  Dark  Ages,"  he  said. 

"Don't  be  a  beast!"  said  Julie. 

"All  right,  you're  not,  and  indeed  I  don't  know  if  I  am 
right.  \'ery  likely  you're  the  very  embodiment  of  the  spirit 
of  the  Present  Day.  Having  lost  every  authority,  you  crave 
for  one." 

Julie  considered  this.  "There  may  be  something  in  that," 
she  said.    "But  I  don't  like  you  when  you're  clever.    It  was 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  309 

the  King,  and  that's  enough  for  me.  And  I  don't  want  to 
see  anything  more.     I'm  hungry ;  take  me  to  lunch." 

Peter  laughed.  "That's  it,"  he  said— "like  the  follower 
of  Prince  Charlie  who  shook  hands  once  with  his  Prince  and 
then  vowed  he  would  never  shake  hands  with  anyone  again. 
So  you've  seen  the  King,  and  you  won't  see  anything  else, 
only  your  impression  won't  last  twelve  hours,  fortunately." 

"I  don't  slippose  the  other  man  kept  his  vow,"  said  Julie. 
"For  one  thing,  no  man  ever  does.     Come  on !" 

And  so  they  drifted  down  the  hours  until  the  evening 
theatre  and  Carminctta.  They  said  and  did  nothing  in  par- 
ticular, hut  they  just  enjoyed  themselves.  In  point  of  fact, 
they  were  emotionally  tired,  and,  besides,  they  wanted  to 
forget  how  the  time  si)ed  by.  The  quiet  day  was,  in  its  own 
way  too,  a  preparation  for  the  evening  feast,  and  they  were 
both  in  the  mood  to  enjoy  the  piece  intensely  when  it  came. 
The  magnificence  of  the  new  theatre  in  which  it  was  staged 
all  helped.  Its  wide,  easy  stairways,  its  many  conveniences, 
its  stupendous  auditorium,  its  packed  house,  ushered  it  well 
in.  Even  the  audience  seemed  different  from  tliat  of  last 
night. 

Julie  settled  herself  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction  to  listen 
and  watch.  And  they  both  grew  silent  as  the  opera  pro- 
ceeded. At  first  Julie  could  not  contain  her  delight.  "Oh, 
she's  perfect,  Peter,"  she  exclaimed — "a  little  bit  of  life! 
Look  how  she  shakes  her  hair  back  and  how  impudent  she 
is — just  like  one  of  those  French  girls  you  know  too  much 
about !  And  she's  boiling  passion  too.  And  a  regular  devil. 
I  love  her,  Peter!" 

"She's  very  like  you,  Julie,"  said  Peter. 

Julie  flashed  a  look  at  liim.  "Rubbish !"  she  said,  but  was 
ailent. 

They  watched  while  Carminetta  set  herself  to  win  her  bet 
and  steal  the  heart  of  the  hero  from  the  Governor's  daughter. 
They  watched  her  force  the  palace  ballroom,  and  forgot  the 
obvious  foolishness  of  a  grent  deal  of  it  in  the  sense  of  the 
drama  that  was  being  worked  out.    The  whole  house  grew 


3IO  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

still.  The  English  girl,  with  her  beauty,  her  civilisation,  her 
rank  and  place,  made  her  apf)eal  to  her  fiance ;  and  the 
Spanish  bastard  dancer,  with  her  daring,  her  passion,  her 
naked  humanity,  so  coarse  and  so  intensely  human,  made 
her  api)eal  also.  And  they  watched  while  the  young  con- 
ventionally-bred officer  hesitated:  they  watched  till  Carmin- 
etta  won. 

Julie,  leaning  forward,  held  her  breath  and  gazed  at  the 
beautiful  fashionable  room  on  the  stage,  gazed  through  the 
open  French  windows  to  the  moonlit  garden  and  the  night 
beyond,  and  gazed,  though  at  last  she  could  hardly  see,  at 
the  Spanish  girl.  That  great  renunciation  held  them  bf)th 
entranced.  So  bitter-sweet,  so  humanly  divine,  the  pas- 
sionate, heart-broken,  heroic  song  of  farewell,  swelled  and 
thrilled  about  them.  And  with  the  last  notes  the  child  of 
the  gutter  reached  up  and  up  till  she  n-aclc  the  supreme  self- 
sacrifice,  and  stepped  out  of  tlie  gay  room  into  the  dark 
night  for  the  sake  of  the  man  she  loved  t«o  much  to  love. 

Then  Julie  bowed  her  head  into  lier  hands,  and  in  the 
silence  and  darkness  of  their  box  burst  into  tears.  And  so, 
for  the  first  and  last  time.  Peter  heard  her  ready  weep. 

Mc  said  fo<ilish  man-things  to  comfort  her.  She  looked 
up  at  last,  smiling,  her  l)rown  eyes  challei-  '  brave 
through  her  tears.  "Peter,  forgive  mc,"  sli«  -.ii-l.  "I 
shouldn't  !>c  such  a  damned  fo<^)l !  You  never  thought  I 
could  be  like  that,  did  you?  Hut  it  was  so  sujx'rbly  done, 
I  couldn't  help  it.  It's  all  over  now — all  over,  Peter,"  .she 
added  soberly.  "I  want  to  sit  in  the  lounge  to-night  for  a 
little,  if  you  don't  mind.  Could  you  possibly  get  a  taxi? 
I  don't  want  to  walk." 

It  was  diflicult  to  find  one.  Finally  Peter  and  another 
officer  made  a  lx)lt  simultaneously  and  each  got  hold  of  a 
door  of  a  car  that  was  just  coming  up.  Both  claimed  it,  and 
the  chautTeur  looked  round  good-humouredly  at  the  dis- 
putants. "Settle  it  which-hever  way  you  like,  gents,"  he 
said.    "Hi  don't  care,  but  settle  it  soon." 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  3" 

"Let's  toss,"  said  Peter. 

"Ri^hl-o,"  said  the  other  man,  and  produced  a  coin. 

"Tails,"  whispered  Julie  behind  Peter,  and  "Tails!"  he 
called. 

The  coin  spun  while  the  little  crowd  looked  on  in  amuse- 
ment, and  tails  it  was.  "Damn!"  said  the  other,  and  turned 
away." 

"A  bad  loser,  Peter,"  said  Julie ;  "and  he's  just  been  seeing 
Carminrtta.  too!   But  am  I  not  lucky!    I  almost  always  win." 

In  the  palm  lounge  Julie  was  very  cheerful.  "Coffee, 
Peter,"  she  said,  "and  licjucurs." 

"No  drinks  after  nine-thirty,"  said  tlie  waiter.  "Sorry, 
sir." 

Julie  laughed.  "I  nearly  swore,  Peter,"  she  said,  "but  I 
rememberctl  in  time.  If  one  can't  get  what  one  wants,  one 
has  to  go  without  singing.  But  I'll  have  a  cigarette,  not  to 
say  two,  before  we've  finished.  And  I'm  in  no  hurry ;  I  want 
to  sit  on  here  and  pretend  it's  not  Saturday  night.  And  I 
want  to  go  very  slowly  to  bed,  and  I  don't  want  to  sleep." 

"Is  that  the  etTect  of  the  theatre?"  asked  Peter.  "And 
why  so  dilTerent  from  last  night?" 

Julie  evaded.  "Don't  you  feel  really  different?"  she 
demanded. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

"How?" 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  preach  any  sermon  to-night.  It's 
been  preached." 

Julie  drew  hard  on  her  cigarette,  and  blew  out  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  "It  has,  Peter,"  she  said  merrily,  "and  thank  the 
Lord  I  am  therefore  spared  anotlier." 

"You're  very  gay  about  it  now,  Julie,  but  you  weren't  at 
first.  That  play  made  me  feel  rather  miserable  too.  No, 
I  think  it  made  me  feel  small.  Carminetta  was  great, 
wa-n't  she  ?  I  don't  know  that  there  is  an^-thing  greater  than 
that  sort  of  sacrifice.    And  it's  far  beyond  me,"  said  Peter. 

Julie  leaned  back  and  hummed  a  bar  or  two  that  Peter 


312  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

recognised  from  the  last  great  song  of  the  dancer.  "Well, 
my  dear,  I  was  sad,  wasn't  I?"  she  said.  "But  it's  over. 
There's  no  use  in  sadness,  is  there?" 

Peter  did  not  reply,  and  started  as  Julie  suddenly  laughed. 
"Oh,  gf)od  I-ord,  Peter!"  she  exclaimed,  "to  what  are  you 
bringing  me?  Do  you  know  that  Pm  about  to  quote  Scrip- 
ture? And  I  damn-well  shall  if  we  sit  on  here!  Let's  walk 
up  Regent  Street ;  I  can't  sit  still.  Come  on."  She 
jumped  up. 

"Just  now,"  he  said,  "you  wanted  to  sit  still  for  ages, 
and  now  you  want  to  walk.  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Julie  ?     And  what  was  the  text  ?" 

"That  would  l)c  telling!"  she  laughed.  "But  can't  I  do 
anything  I  like,  Peter?"  she  demanded.  "Can't  I  go  and  get 
drunk  if  I  like,  Peter,  or  sit  still,  or  dance  down  Regent 
Street,  or  send  you  ofT  to  bed  and  pick  up  a  nice  boy?  It 
wouM  be  easy  cmmgh  liere.     Can't  I,  Peter?" 

Her  mood  bewildered  him,  and,  without  in  the  least  under- 
standing why,  he  resented  her  levity.  But  he  tried  to  hide  it. 
"Of  course  you  can."  he  said  lightly;  "but  you  don't  really 
want  to  do  those  things,  do  you — especially  the  last,  Julie?' 

She  stood  there  hxiking  at  him,  and  then,  in  a  moment, 
the  excitement  died  out  of  her  voice  and  eyes.  She  dropped 
into  a  chair  again.  "No.  Peter,"  she  said,  "I  don't.  That's 
the  marvel  of  it.  I  expect  I  shall,  one  of  these  days,  do  most 
of  those  things,  and  the  last  as  well,  but  I  don't  think  I'll  ever 
won/  to  do  them  again.  And  that's  what  you've  done  to  me, 
my  dear." 

Peter  was  very  moved.  He  slipped  his  hand  out  and 
took  hers  under  cover  of  her  dress.  "My  darling,"  he  whis- 
pered. "I  owe  you  everything.  Vou  have  given  me  ail,  and 
I  won't  hold  back  all  from  you.  Do  you  remember,  Julie, 
that  once  I  said  I  thought  I  loved  you  more  than  God? 
Well,  I  know  now — oh  yes,  I  believe  I  do  know  now.  But 
I  choose  you.  Julie." 

Her  eyes  shone  up  at  him  very  brightly,  and  he  could  not 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  313 

read  them  altogether.  But  her  Hps  whispered,  and  he 
thought  he  understood. 

"Oh,  Peter,  my  dearest,"  she  said,  "thank  God  I  have  at 
least  heard  you  say  that.  I  wouldn't  have  missed  you  saying 
those  words  for  anything,  Peter." 

So  might  the  serving-girl  in  Pilate's  courtyard  have  been 
glad,  had  she  been  in  love. 


CHAPTER  X 

PART  at  least  of  Julie's  programme  was  fulfilled  to  the 
letter,  for  they  lay  long  in  bed  talking — desultory, 
reminiscent  talk,  whicli  sent  Peter's  mind  back  over  the 
months  and  the  last  few  days,  even  after  Julie  was  asleep 
in  the  bed  next  his.  Like  a  pageant,  he  passed  in  review 
scene  after  scene,  turning  it  over,  and  wondering  at  signi- 
ficances that  he  had  not  before  imagined.  He  recalled  their 
first  meeting,  that  instantaneous  attraction,  and  he  asked 
himself  what  had  caused  it.  Her  sjxintancity,  freshness,  and 
utter  lack  of  conventionality,  he  supposed,  but  that  did  not 
seem  to  explain  all.  He  wondered  at  the  chan-^c  that  had 
even  then  come  about  in  himself  that  he  should  iiavc  been 
so  entranced  by  her.  I  Ic  went  over  his  early  hopes  and  fears  ; 
he  thought  again  of  conversations  with  Langton ;  and  he 
realised  afresh  how  true  it  was  that  the  old  authorities  had 
dwindled  away  ;  that  no  allegiance  had  been  left ;  that  his 
had  been  a  citadel  without  a  master.  And  then  Julie  moved 
through  his  days  again — Julie  at  CaudclK'C,  daring,  iconoclas- 
tic, free;  Julie  at  Abbeville,  mysterious,  passionate,  domi- 
nant; Julie  at  Dieppe — ah.  Julie  at  Dieppe!  He  marvelled 
that  he  had  held  out  so  long  after  Dieppe,  and  then  Louise 
rose  before  him.  He  understfxjd  Louise  less  than  Julie, 
perhaps,  and  with  all  the  threads  in  his  hand  he  failed  to 
see  the  pattern.  He  turned  over  restlessly.  It  was  easy  to 
see  how  tiicy  had  come  to  be  in  London ;  it  would  have  been 
more  remarkable  if  they  had  not  so  come  together;  but  now, 
what  now?  He  could  not  sum  up  Julie  amid  the  shifting 
scenes  of  the  last  few  days.  She  had  been  so  loving,  and  yet, 
in  a  way,  their  love  had  reached  no  climax.  It  had,  indeed, 
reached  what  he  would  once  have  thought  a  complete  and 
ultimate  climax,  but  plainly  Julie  did  not  think  so.     And 

314 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  315 

nor  did  he — now.  The  things  of  the  spirit  were,  after  all, 
so  much  greater  than  the  things  of  the  flesh.  The  Julie  of 
Friday  night  had  been  his,  but  of  this  night  .  .  .  ?  He 
rolled  over  again.  What  had  she  meant  at  the  play?  He 
told  himself  her  tears  were  simple  emotion,  her  laughter 
simple  reaction,  but  he  knew  it  was  not  true.  .  .  . 

And  for  himself?  Well,  Julie  was  Julie.  He  loved  her 
intensely.  She  could  stir  him  to  anv-thing  almost.  He  loved 
to  be  with  her,  to  see  her,  to  hear  her,  but  he  did  not  feel 
satisfied.  He  knew  that.  He  told  himself  that  he  was  an 
introspective  fool ;  that  nothing  ever  would  seem  to  satisfy 
him;  that  the  centre  of  his  life  zi'as  and  would  be  Julie;  that 
she  was  real,  tinglingly,  intensely  real ;  but  he  knew  that 
that  was  not  the  last  word.  And  then  and  there  he  resolved 
that  the  last  word  should  be  spoken  on  the  morrow,  that 
had,  indeed,  already  come  by  the  clock:  she  should  promise 
to  marry  him. 

He  slept,  perhaps,  for  an  hour  or  two,  but  he  awoke  with 
the  dawn.  The  grey  light  was  stealing  in  at  the  windows, 
and  Julie  slept  beside  him  in  the  bed  between.  He  tried  to 
-sleep  again,  but  could  not,  and,  on  a  sudden,  had  an  idea. 
He  got  quietly  out  of  bed. 

"What  is  it,  Peter?"  said  Julie  sleepily. 

He  went  round  and  leaned  over  her,  "I  can't  sleep  any 
more,  dearest,"  he  said.  "I  think  I'll  dress  and  go  for  a  bit 
of  a  walk.    Do  you  mind?    I'll  be  in  to  breakfast." 

"No,"  she  said.  "Go  if  you  want  to.  You  are  a  restless 
old  thing!" 

He  dressed  silently,  and  kept  the  bathroom  door  closed  as 
he  bathed  and  shaved.  She  was  asleep  again  as  he  stole 
out,  one  arm  flung  loosely  on  the  counterpane,  her  hair 
untidy  on  the  pillow.  He  kissed  a  lock  of  it,  and  let  himself 
quietly  out  of  their  suite. 

It  was  still  very  early,  and  the  Circus  looked  empty  and 
strange.  He  walked  down  Piccadilly,  and  wondered  at  the 
clean,  soft  touch  of  the  dawning  day,  and  recalled  another 
memorable  Sunday  morning  walk.     He  passed  very  familiar 


3i6  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

places,  and  was  conscious  of  feeling  an  exile,  an  inevitable 
one,  but  none  the  less  an  exile,  for  all  that.  And  so  he  came  in- 
to St.  James's  Park,  still  as  aimlessly  as  he  had  left  tlic  hotel. 

Before  him,  clear  as  a  pointing  fmger  in  the  morning  sky, 
was  the  campanile  of  that  stranger  among  the  great  cathedrals 
of  England,  It  attracted  him  for  the  first  time,  and  he  made 
all  but  unconsciously  towards  it.  Peter  was  not  even  in  the 
spiritual  street  that  leads  to  the  gates  of  the  Catholic  Church, 
and  it  was  no  incipient  Romanism  that  moved  him.  He  was 
completely  ignorant  of  the  greater  part  of  that  faith,  and,  still 
more,  had  no  idea  of  the  gulf  that  scj^rates  it  from  all  other 
religions.  He  would  have  supposed,  if  he  had  stopped  to 
think,  that,  as  with  other  sects,  one  considered  its  tenets, 
made  up  one's  mind  as  to  their  truth  or  falsehood  one  by  one, 
and  if  one  bchcved  a  sufficient  majority  of  them  joined  the 
Church.  It  was  only,  then,  the  mood  of  the  moment,  and 
when  he  found  himself  really  moving  towards  that  finger- 
post he  excused  himself  by  thinkmg  that  as  he  was,  by  his 
own  act,  exiled  from  more  familiar  temples,  he  would  visit 
this  that  would  have  about  it  a  suggestion  of  France. 

He  wondered  if  it  would  l)e  open  as  he  turned  into  Ashley 
Gardens.  He  glanced  at  his  watch;  it  was  only  just  after 
seven.  Perhaps  an  early  Mass  might  be  beginning.  He 
went  to  the  central  doors  and  found  them  fast ;  then  he  saw 
little  groups  of  people  and  individuals  like  himself  making 
for  the  door  in  the  great  tower,  and  these  he  followed  within. 

He  stood  amazed  for  a  few  minutes.  The  vast  soaring 
space,  so  austere  in  its  bare  brick,  gripped  his  imagination. 
The  white  and  re<l  and  gold  of  the  jwiinied  Christ  that  hung 
so  high  and  monstrous  before  the  entrance  to  the  marbles  of 
the  sanctuary  almost  troubled  him.  It  dominated  everything 
so  completely  that  he  felt  he  could  not  escape  it.  He  sought 
one  of  the  many  chairs  and  knelt  down. 

A  little  bell  tinkled.  Peter  glanced  sideways  towards  the 
sound,  and  saw  that  a  Mass  was  in  progress  in  a  side-chapel 
of  gleaming  mosaics,  and  that  a  soldier  in  uniform  served. 
Hardly  had  he  taken  tlie  details  in,  when  another  bell  claimed 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  317 

Iws  attention.  It  came  from  across  the  wide  nave,  and  he 
perceived  that  anotlier  chapel  had  its  Mass,  and  a  considerable 
congregation.  And  then,  his  attention  aroused,  he  began  to 
spy  about  and  to  take  in  the  thing. 

The  whole  vast  cathedral  was,  as  it  were,  alive.  Seven 
or  eight  Masses  were  in  progress.  One  would  scarcely  finish 
before  another  priest,  preceded  by  soldier  in  uniform  or 
server  in  cassock  and  cotta,  would  appear  from  beyond  the 
great  pulpit  and  make  his  way  to  yet  another  altar.  The 
small  handbells  rang  out  again  and  again  and  again,  and  still 
priest  after  priest  was  there  to  take  his  place.  Peter  began 
cautiously  to  move  about.  He  became  amazed  at  the  size  of 
the  congregation.  They  had  been  lost  in  that  great  place, 
but  every  chapel  had  its  people,  and  there  were,  in  reality, 
hundreds  scattered  about  in  the  nave  alone. 

He  knelt  for  awhile  and  watched  the  giving  of  Communion 
in  the  guarded  chapel  to  the  north  of  the  high  altar.  Its 
gold  and  emblazoned  gates  were  not  for  him,  but  he  could 
at  least  kneel  and  v/atch  those  who  passed  in  and  out.  They 
were  of  all  sorts  and  classes,  of  all  ranks  and  ages;  men, 
women,  children,  old  and  young,  rich  and  poor,  soldier  and 
civilian,  streamed  in  and  out  again.  Peter  sighed  and  left 
them.  He  found  an  altar  at  which  Mass  was  about  to  begin, 
and  he  knelt  at  the  back  on  a  mosaic  pavement  in  which 
fishes  and  strange  beasts  were  set  in  a  marble  stream,  and 
watched.  And  it  was  not  one  Mass  that  he  watched,  but 
two  or  three,  and  it  was  there  that  a  vision  grew  on  his 
inner  understanding,  as  he  knelt  and  could  not  pray. 

It  is  hard  and  deceptive  to  write  of  those  subconscious 
imaginings  that  convict  the  souls  of  most  men  some  time 
or  another.  In  that  condition  things  are  largely  what  we 
fashion  them  to  be,  and  one  may  be  thought  to  be  asserting 
their  ultimate  truth  in  speaking  of  their  influence.  But  there 
is  no  escaping  from  the  fact  that  Peter  Graham  of  a  lost 
allegiance  began  that  Sunday  morning  to  be  aware  of  another 
claimant.    And  this  is  what  dawned  upon  him,  and  how. 

A  French  memory  gave  him  a  starting-point.     Here,  at 


3i8  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

these  Low  Masses,  it  was  more  abundantly  plain  than  ever 
that  these  priests  did  not  conceive  themselves  to  be  serving 
a  congregation,  but  an  altar.  One  after  the  other  they 
moved  through  a  ritual,  and  spoke  low  sentences  that  hardly 
reached  him,  with  their  eyes  hoMen  by  that  which  they  did. 
At  first  he  was  only  conscious  of  this,  but  then  he  perceived 
the  essential  change  that  came  over  each  in  his  turn.  The 
posturing  and  speaking  was  but  introductory  to  the  moment 
when  they  raised  the  Host  and  knelt  before  it.  It  was  as 
if  they  were  but  functionaries  ushering  in  a  King,  and  then 
effacing  thenoselvcs  before  Him. 

Here,  then,  the  Old  Testament  of  Peter's  past  became 
to  him  a  schoolmaster.  He  heard  himself  repeating  again 
the  comfortable  words  of  the  Prayer-Book  service:  "Come 
unto  Me.  .  .  ."  "God  so  loved.  ..."  "If  any  man 
sin.  .  .  ."  Louise's  hot  declaration  forced  itself  upon  him: 
"It  is  He  Who  is  there."  And  it  was  then  that  the  eyes  ot 
his  mind  were  enlightened  and  he  saw  a  vision — not,  indeed, 
of  the  truth  of  the  Roman  Mass  (if  it  be  true),  and  not  of 
the  place  of  the  Sacrament  in  the  Divine  scheme  of  things, 
but  the  conception  of  a  love  so  great  that  it  shook  him  as  if 
it  were  a  storm,  and  bowed  him  before  it  as  if  he  were  a 
reed. 

The  silent,  waiting  Jesus.  .  .  .  All  these  centuries,  in 
every  land.  .  .  .  How  He  had  been  mocked,  forgotten, 
spurned,  derided,  denied,  cast  out ;  and  still  He  waited. 
Prostitutes  of  the  streets,  pardoned  in  a  word,  advanced  to- 
wards Him,  and  He  knew  that  so  shortly  again,  within  the 
secret  place  of  their  hearts.  He  would  be  crucified;  but  still 
He  waited.  Careless  men,  doubtless  passion-mastered,  came 
up  to  Him,  and  He  knew  the  sort  that  came ;  but  still  He 
waited.  He,  Peter,  who  had  not  known  He  was  here  at  all, 
and  who  had  gone  wandering  off  in  search  of  any  mistress, 
spent  many  days,  turned  in  by  chance,  and  found  Him  here. 
What  did  He  wait  for?  Nothing;  there  was  nothing  that 
anyone  could  give,  nothing  but  a  load  of  shame,  the  ottering 
of  a  body  spent  by  passionate  days,  the  kiss  of  traitor-lips; 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  31& 

but  still  He  waited.  He  did  more  than  wait.  He  offered 
Himself  to  it  all.  He  had  hound  Himself  by  an  oath  to  be 
kissed  if  Judas  planned  to  kiss  Him,  and  He  came  through 
the  trees  to  that  bridal  with  the  dawn  of  every  day.  He 
had  foreseen  the  chalice,  foreseen  that  it  would  be  filled  at 
every  moon  and  every  sun  by  the  bitter  gall  of  ingratitude 
and  wantonness  and  hate,  but  He  had  pledged  Himself — • 
"Even  so,  Father" — and  He  was  here  to  drink  it.  Small 
wonder,  then,  that  the  paving  on  which  Peter  Graham  knelt 
seemed  to  swim  before  his  eyes  until  it  was  in  truth  a  moving 
ocean  of  love  that  streamed  from  the  altar  and  enclosed  of 
every  kind,  and  even  him. 

The  movement  of  chairs  and  the  gathering  of  a  bigger 
congregation  than  usual  near  a  chapel  that  Peter  perceived 
to  be  for  the  dead  aroused  him.  He  got  up  to  go.  He 
walked  quickly  up  Victoria  Street,  and  marvelled  over  the 
scene  he  had  left.  In  sight  of  Big  Ben  he  glanced  up — 
twenty  to  nine!  He  had  been,  then,  an  hour  and  a  half  in 
the  cathedral.  He  recalled  having  read  that  a  Mass  took 
half  an  hour,  and  he  began  to  reckon  how  many  persons 
had  heard  Mass  even  while  he  had  been  there.  Not  less  than 
five  hundred  at  every  half -hour,  and  most  probably  more. 
Fifteen  hundred  to  two  thousand  souls,  of  every  sort  and 
kind,  then,  had  been  drawn  in  to  that  all  but  silent  ceremony, 
to  that  showing  of  Jesus  crucified.  A  multitude — and  what 
compassion ! 

Thus  he  walked  home,  thinking  of  many  things,  but  the 
vision  he  had  seen  was  uppermost  and  would  not  be  dis- 
placed. It  was  still  in  his  eyes  as  he  entered  their  bedroom 
and  found  Julie  looking  at  a  magazine  as  she  lay  in  bed, 
smoking  a  cigarette. 

"Lor',  Peter,  are  you  back?  I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  up, 
but  I  was  so  sleepy.  What's  the  time?  Why,  what's  the 
matter?    Where  have  you  been?" 

Peter  did  not  go  over  to  her  at  once  as  she  had  expected. 
It  was  not  that  he  felt  he  could  not,  or  anything  like  that, 
but  simply  that  he  was  only  thinking  of  her  in  a  secondary 


320  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

way.  He  walked  to  the  dressing-table  and  lifted  the  flowers 
she  had  worn  the  night  before  and  put  there  in  a  little  glass. 

"Where  have  you  been,  old  Solomon?"  demanded  Julie 
again. 

"Seeing  wonders,  Julie,"  said  Peter,  looking  dreamily  at 
the  blossoms. 

"No?  Really?  What?  Do  tell  me.  If  it  was  anything 
I  might  have  seen,  you  were  a  beast  not  to  come  back  for 
me,  d'you  hear?" 

Peter  turned  and  stared  at  her,  but  she  knew  as  he  looked 
that  he  hardly  saw  her.  Her  lone  changed,  and  she  made 
a  little  movement  with  her  hand.  "Tell  me,  Peter,"  she  said 
again. 

"I've  seen,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "a  bigger  thing  than  I 
thought  the  world  could  hold.  I've  seen  something  so  won- 
derful, Julie,  that  it  hurt — oh,  more  than  I  can  .say.  I've 
seen  Love,  Julie." 

She  could  not  help  it.  It  was  a  foolish  thing  to  say  just 
then,  she  knew,  but  it  came  out.  "Oh,  Peter,"  she  said,  "did 
you  have  to  leave  me  to  see  that  ?" 

"Leave  you  ?"  he  questioned,  and  for  a  moment  so  fost  in 
his  thought  was  he  tliat  he  did  not  understand  what  she 
meant.  Then  it  dawned  on  him,  and  he  smiled.  He  did  not 
see  as  he  stood  there,  the  clumsy  Peter,  how  the  two  were 
related.  So  he  smiled,  and  he  came  over  to  her,  and  took 
her  hand,  and  sat  on  the  bed,  his  eyes  still  full  of  light.  "Oh, 
you've  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  said.  "It's  far  bigger  than 
you  or  I,  Julie.  Our  love  is  like  a  candle  held  up  to  the 
sun  beside  it.  Our  love  wants  something,  doesn't  it?  It 
burns,  it — it  intoxicates,  Julie.  But  this  love  waits,  waits, 
do  you  understand?  It  asks  nothing;  it  gives,  it  suffices  all. 
Year  after  year  it  just  waits,  Julie,  waits  for  anyone,  waits 
for  everyone.  And  you  can  spurn  it,  spit  on  it,  crucify  it, 
and  it  is  still  there  when  you — need,  Julie."  And  Peter 
leaned  forward,  and  buried  his  face  in  her  little  hand. 

Julie  heard  him  through,  and  it  was  well  that  before  the 
end  he  did  not  see  her  eyes.     Then  she  moved  her  other 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  321 

hand  which  held  the  half -burnt  cigarette  and  dropped  the 
smoking  end  (so  that  it  made  a  little  hiss)  into  her  teacup 
on  the  glass-topped  table,  and  brought  her  hand  back,  and 
caressed  his  hair  as  he  lay  bent  forward  there.  "Dear  old 
Peter,"  she  said  tenderly,  "how  he  thinks  things !  And  when 
you  saw  this — this  love,  Peter,  how  did  you  feel?" 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  minute,  and  when  he  did  he  did 
not  raise  his  head.  "Oh,  I  don't  know,  Julie,"  he  said.  "It 
went  through  and  through  me.  It  was  like  a  big  sea,  and  it 
flooded  me  away.  It  filled  me.  I  seemed  to  drink  it  in  at 
every  pore.    I  felt  satisfied  just  to  be  there." 

"And  then  you  came  back  to  Julie,  eh,  Peter?"  she  ques- 
tioned. 

"Why,  of  course,"  he  said,  sitting  up  with  a  smile.  "Why 
not?"  He  gave  a  little  laugh.  "Why,  Julie,"  he  said,  "I 
never  thought  of  that  before.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have 
been — oh,  I  don't  know,  but  our  days  together  didn't  seem 
to  make  any  difference.  That  Love  was  too  big.  It  seemed 
to  me  to  be  too  big  to  be — well,  jealous,  I  suppose." 

She  nodded.  "That  would  be  just  it,  Peter.  That's  how 
it  would  seem  to  you.  You  see,  I  know.  It's  strange,  my 
dear,  but  I  don't  feel  either — jealous." 

He  frowned.  "What  do  you  mean?"  he  said.  "Don't 
you  understand?    It  was  God's  Love  that  I  saw." 

She  hesitated  a  second,  and  then  her  face  relaxed  into  a 
smile.  "You're  as  blind  as  a  bat,  my  dear,  but  I  suppose 
all  men  are,  and  so  you  can't  help  it.  Now  go  and  ring  for 
breakfast  and  smoke  a  cigarette  in  the  sitting-room  while 
I  dress."  And  Peter,  because  he  hated  to  be  called  a  bat 
and  did  not  feel  in  the  least  like  one,  went. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  the  maid  answered  it.  She  did  not 
wait  for  him  to  give  his  order,  but  advanced  towards  him, 
her  eyes  sparkling.  "Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  "is  madame  up? 
I  don't  know  how  to  thank  her,  and  you  too.  I've  wanted 
a  frame  for  Jack's  picture,  but  I  couldn't  get  a  real  good 
one,  I  couldn't.  When  I  sees  this  parcel  I  couldn't  think 
what  it  was.     I  forgot  even  as  how  I'd  give  the  lady  my 


322  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

name.  Oh,  she's  the  real  good  one,  she  is.  You'll  forgive  me, 
sir,  but  I  know  a  real  lady  when  I  see  one.  They  haven't 
got  no  airs,  and  they  know  what  a  girl  feels  like,  right  away. 
I  put  Jack  in  it,  sir,  on  me  table,  and  if  there's  anythink  I 
can  do  for  you  or  your  lady,  now  or  ever,  I'll  do  it,  sir." 

Peter  smiled  at  the  little  outburst,  but  his  heart  warmed 
within  him.  How  just  like  Julie  it  was!  *'\Vell,"  he  .said, 
"it's  the  lady  you've  really  to  thank.  Knock,  if  you  like;  I 
expect  she'll  let  you  in.  And  then  order  breakfast,  will  you? 
Bacon  and  eggs  and  some  fi>h.  Thanks."  And  he  turned 
away. 

She  made  for  the  door,  but  stopped.  "I  near  forgot,  sir," 
she  said.  "A  gentleman  left  this  for  you  last  night,  and 
they  give  it  to  me  at  the  office — this  morning.  There  was  no 
answer,  he  said.  He  went  by  this  morning's  train."  She 
handed  Peter  an  unstam{)ed  envelo[)e  bearing  the  hotel's 
name,  and  left  the  room  as  he  opened  it.  He  did  not  recog- 
nise the  handwriting,  but  he  tore  it  open  and  glanced  at  once 
at  the  signature,  and  got  a  very  considerable  surprise,  not 
to  say  a  shock.    It  was  signed  "J'^c^  Donovan." 

"My  Di:ar  Graham   [the  letter  ran], 

"Forgive  me  for  writing,  but  I  must  tell  ycm  that  I've 
seen  you  twice  with  Julie  (and  each  time  neither  of  you  saw 
anyone  else  but  yourselves!).  It  seems  mean  to  see  you  and 
not  say  so,  but  for  the  Lord's  sake  don't  think  it'll  go 
further,  or  that  I  reproach  you.  I've  been  there  my.self,  old 
bird,  and  in  any  case  I  don't  worry  about  other  people's 
shows.  But  I  want  to  tell  you  a  bit  of  news — Tommy 
Raynard  and  I  have  fixed  it  up.  I  know  ycm'll  congratulate 
me.  She's  topping,  and  just  the  girl  for  me — no  end  wiser 
than  I,  and  as  jolly  as  anyone,  really.  I  don't  know  how  you 
and  Julie  are  coming  out  of  it,  and  I  won't  guess,  for  it's  a 
dreadful  war;  but  maybe  you'll  be  able  to  sympathise  with 
me  at  having  to  leave  viy  girl  in  France!  However,  I'm  oflf 
back  to-morrow,  a  day  before  you.     If  you  hadn't  run  oflf 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  323 

to  Paris,  you'd  have  known.     My  leave  order  was   from 
Havre. 

"Well,  cheerio.  See  you  before  long.  And  just  one  word, 
my  boy,  from  a  fellow  who  has  seen  a  bit  more  than  you 
(if  you'll  forgave  me)  :  remember,  Julic'll  know  best. 

"Yours,  ever, 

"Jack  Donovan/' 

Peter  frowned  over  his  letter,  and  then  smiled,  and  then 
frowned  again.  He  was  still  at  it  when  he  heard  Julie's 
footstep  outside,  and  he  thrust  the  envelope  quickly  into  his 
pocket,  thinking  rapidly.  He  did  not  in  the  least  understand 
what  the  other  meant,  especially  by  the  last  sentence,  and  he 
wanted  to  consider  it  before  showing  Julie.  Also,  he  won- 
dered if  it  was  meant  to  be  shown  to  Julie  at  all.  He  thought 
not ;  probably  Donovan  was  absolutely  as  good  as  his  word, 
and  would  not  even  mention  an>'thing  to  Tommy.  But  he 
thought  no  more,  for  Julie  was  on  him. 

"Peter,  it's  started  to  rain !  I  knew  it  would.  Why  does 
it  always  rain  on  Sundays  in  London  ?  Probably  the  heavens 
themselves  weep  at  the  sight  of  so  gloomy  a  city.  However, 
I  don't  care  a  damn !  I've  made  up  my  mind  what  we're 
going  to  do.  We  shall  sit  in  front  of  the  fire  all  the  morning, 
and  you  shall  read  to  me.    Will  you  ?" 

"Anything  you  like,  my  darling,"  he  said ;  "and  we  couldn't 
spend  a  better  morning.  But  bacon  and  eggs  first,  eh  ?  No, 
fish  first,  I  mean.  But  pour  out  a  cup  of  tea  at  once,  for 
Heaven's  sake.    /  haven't  had  a  drop  this  morning." 

"Poor  old  thing!  No  wonder  you're  a  bit  off  colour.  No 
early  tea  after  that  champagne  last  night!  But,  oh,  Peter, 
wasn't  Carminctta  a  dream?" 

Breakfast  over,  Peter  sat  in  a  chair  and  bent  over  her. 
"What  do  you  want  me  to  read,  Julie  darling?"  he  demanded. 

She  considered.  "Not  a  magazine,  not  La  Vie  Parisienne, 
though  we  might  perhaps  look  at  the  pictures  part  of  the 
time.    I  know!     Stop!     I'll  get  it."     She  ran  out  and  re- 


324  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

turned  with  a  little  leather-covered  book.  "Read  it  right 
through,  Peter,"  she  said.  "Pve  read  it  heaps  of  times, 
but  I  want  to  hear  it  again  to-day.     Do  you  mind?" 

"Omar  Khayyam!"  exclaimed  Peter.  "Good  idea!  He's 
a  blasi)hemous  old  pagan,  but  the  verse  is  glorious  and  it  fits 
in  at  times.    Do  you  want  me  to  start  at  once?" 

"Give  me  a  cigarette !  no,  put  the  box  there.  Stir  up 
the  fire.  Come  and  sit  on  the  floor  with  your  back  to  me. 
That's  right.     Now  fire  away." 

She  leaned  back  and  he  began.  He  read  for  the  rhythm ; 
she  listened  for  the  meaning.  He  read  to  the  end ;  she  hardly 
heard  more  than  a  stanza : 

\         "Oh,  threats  of  Hell  and  Hopes  of  Paradise  I  ^ 

J            One  thing  at  least  is  certain — this  Life  flics;  j 

/^              One  thing  is  certain,  and  the  rest  is  lies —  \ 
The  flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies." 

They  lunched  in  the  hotel,  and  at  the  table  Peter  put  the 
first  necessary  questions  that  they  both  dreaded.  "I'm  going 
to  tell  them  to  make  out  my  bill,  Julie,"  he  said.  "I've  to  be 
at  Victoria  at  seven-thirty  a.m.  to-morrow,  you  know. 
You've  still  got  some  leave,  haven't  you,  dear ;  what  are  you 
going  to  do?    How  long  will  you  stay  on  here?" 

"Not  after  you've  gone,  Peter,"  she  said.  "Let  them  make 
it  out  for  me  till  after  breakfast  to-morrow." 

"But  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  he  demanded. 

"Oh,  don't  ask.  It  spoils  to-day  to  think  of  to-morrow. 
Go  to  my  friends,  perhaps — yes,  I  think  that.  It's  only  for 
a  few  days  now." 

"Oh,  Julie,  I  wish  I  could  stay." 

"So  do  I,  but  you  can't,  so  don't  worry.  What  about  this 
afternoon?" 

"If  it's  stopped  raining,  let's  go  for  a  walk,  shall  we?" 

They  settled  on  that,  and  it  was  Julie  who  took  him  again 
to  St.  James's  Park.  As  they  walked :  "Where  did  you  go 
to  church  this  morning,  Peter  ?"  she  asked. 

He  pointed  to  the  campanile.    "Over  there,"  he  said. 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  325 

"Then  let's  go  together  to-night,"  she  said. 

*'Do  you  mean  it,  Julie?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I'm  curious.  Besides,  it's  Sunday,  and 
I  want  to  go  to  church." 

"But  you'll  miss  dinner,"  objected  Peter.  "It  begins  at 
six-thirty." 

"Well,  let's  get  some  food  out — Victoria  Station,  for 
instance.  Won't  that  do?  We  can  have  some  supper  sent 
up  afterwards  in  the  hotel." 

Peter  agreed,  but  ihcy  did  not  go  to  the  station.  In  a  little 
cafe  outside  Julie  saw  a  South  African  private  eating  eggs 
and  bacon,  and  nothing  would  do  but  that  they  must  do  the 
same.  So  they  went  in.  They  ate  off  thick  plates,  and  Julie 
dropped  the  china  pepper-pot  on  her  eggs  and  generally 
behaved  as  if  she  were  at  a  school-treat.  But  it  was  a 
novelty,  and  it  kept  their  thoughts  off  the  fact  that  it  was  the 
last  night.    And  finally  they  went  to  church. 

The  service  did  not  impress  Peter,  and  every  time  he 
looked  at  Julie's  face  he  wanted  to  laugh ;  but  the  atmosphere 
of  the  place  did,  though  he  could  not  catch  the  impression 
of  the  morning.  For  the  sermon,  a  stoutish,  foreign-looking 
ecclesiastic  mounted  the  pulpit,  and  they  both  prepared  to  be 
bored.  However,  he  gave  out  his  text,  and  Peter  sat  bolt 
upright  at  once.  It  would  have  delighted  the  ears  of  his 
Wesley  an  corporal  of  the  Forestry ;  and  more  than  that  it 
was  the  text  he  had  quoted  in  the  ears  of  the  dying  Jenks. 
He  prepared  keenly  to  listen.  As  for  Julie,  she  was  regard- 
ing the  altar  with  a  far-away  look  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
scarcely  moved  the  whole  time. 

Outside,  as  soon  as  they  were  out  of  the  crowd,  Peter 
began  at  once. 

"Julie,"  he  said,  "whatever  did  you  think  of  that  sermon?" 

"What  did  you?"  she  said.    "Tell  me  first." 

"I  don't  believe  you  lis  jned  at  all,  but  I  can't  help  talking 
of  it.  It  was  amazing.  He  began  by  speaking  about  Adam 
and  Eve  and  original  sin  and  the  Garden  of  Eden  as  if  he'd 
been  there.    There  might  never  have  been  a  Higher  Critic 


326  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

in  existence.  Then  he  said  what  sin  did,  and  that  sin  was 
only  truly  sin  if  it  did  do  that.  Tliat  was  to  hide  the  face  of 
God,  to  put  Him  and  a  human  being  absolutely  out  of  com- 
munication, so  to  speak.  And  then  he  came  to  Christ,  to 
the  Cross.  Did  you  hear  him,  Julie?  Christ  comes  in  be- 
tween— He  got  in  between  God  and  man.  All  the  anger 
that  darted  out  of  God  against  sin  hit  Him ;  all  the  blows 
that  man  struck  back  against  God  hit  Him.  Do  you  see  that, 
Julie?  That  was  wonderfully  put,  but  the  end  was  more 
wonderful.  Both,  ultimately,  cannot  kill  the  Heart  of  Jesus. 
There's  no  sin  there  to  merit  or  to  feel  the  anger,  and  we  can 
hurt,  but  we  can't  destroy  His  love." 

Peter  stopped.  "That's  what  I  saw  a  little  this  morning," 
he  said  after  a  minute. 

"Well?"   said  Julie. 

"Oh,  it's  all  so  plain!  If  there  was  a  way  to  that  Heart, 
one  would  be  safe.  I  mean,  a  way  that  is  not  an  emotional 
idea,  not  a  subjective  experience,  but  something  practical. 
Some  way  that  a  Tommy  could  travel  as  easily  as  anyone, 
and  get  to  a  real  thing.  And  he  said  there  was  a  way,  and 
just  sketched  it,  the  Sacraments — more  than  ours,  of  course, 
their  seven,  all  of  them  more  or  less,  I  suppose.  He  meant 
that  the  Sacraments  were  not  signs  of  salvation,  but  salvation 
itself.  Julie,  I  never  saw  the  idea  before.  It's  colossal.  It's 
a  thing  to  which  one  might  dedicate  one's  life.  It's  a  thing 
to  live  and  die  gladly  for.  It  fills  one.  Don't  you  think  so, 
Julie?"    He  spoke  exultantly. 

"Peter,  to  be  honest,"  said  Julie,  "I  think  you're  talking 
fanatical  rubbish." 

"Do  you  really,  Julie?    You  can't,  surely  you  can't." 

"But  I  do,  Peter,"  she  said  sadly ;  "it  makes  no  appeal  to 
me.  I  can  only  see  one  great  thing  in  life,  and  it's  not  that. 
'The  rest  is  lies.'  But,  oh !  surely  that  great  thing  might  not 
be  false  too.  But  why  do  you  see  one  thing,  and  I  another, 
my  dear  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Peter,  "unless — well,  perhaps  it's  a 
kind  of  gift,  Julie.    Tf  thou  knewest  the  gift  of  God  .  .  .* 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  327 

Not  that  I  know,  only  I  can  just  see  a  great  wonderful  vision, 
and  it  fills  my  sight." 

"I,  too,"  she  said ;  "but  it's  not  your  vision." 

"What  is  it,  then?"  said  he,  carried  away  by  his  own  ideas 
and  hardly  thinking  of  her. 

Her  voice  brought  him  back.  "Oh,  Peter,  don't  you  know 
even  yet?" 

He  took  her  arm  very  tenderly  at  that.  "My  darling." 
he  said,  "the  two  aren't  incompatible.  Julie,  don't  be  sad. 
I  love  you ;  you  know  I  love  you.  I  wish  we'd  never  gone 
to  the  place  if  you  think  I  don't,  but  I  haven't  changed 
towards  you  a  bit,  Julie.  I  love  you  far,  far  more  than  any- 
one else.     I  won't  give  you  up,  even  to  God !" 

It  was  dark  where  they  were.  Julie  lifted  her  face  to  him 
just  there.  He  thought  he  had  never  heard  her  speak  as  she- 
spoke  now,  there,  in  a  London  street,  under  the  night  sky. 
"Peter,  my  darling,"  she  said,  "my  brave  boy.  How  I  love 
you,  Peter !  I  know  you  won't  give  me  up,  Peter,  and  I 
adore  you  for  it.  Peter,  hell  will  be  heaven  with  the  memory 
of  that!"    There,  then,  he  sealed  her  with  his  kiss. 

Julie  stirred  in  his  arms,  but  the  movement  did  not  wake 
him  any  more  than  the  knock  of  the  door  had  done.  "All 
right,"  she  called.  "Thank  you,"  and,  leaning  over,  she 
switched  on  the  light.  It  was  5  30,  and  necessary.  In  its 
radiance  she  bent  over  him,  and  none  of  her  friends  had  ever 
seen  her  look  as  she  did  then.  She  kissed  him,  and  he  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Half-past  five,  Peter,"  she  said,  as  gaily  as  she  could. 
"You've  got  to  get  a  move  on,  my  dear.  Two  hours  to  dress 
and  pack  and  breakfast — no,  I  suppose  you  can  do  that  on 
the  train.  But  you've  got  to  get  there.  Oh,  Lord,  how  it 
brings  the  war  home,  doesn't  it?    Jump  up!" 

Peter  sighed.  "Blast  the  war!"  he  said  lazily.  "I  shan't 
move.  Kiss  me  again,  you  darling,  and  let  your  hair  fall 
over  my  face." 

She  did  so,  and  its  glossy  curtain  hid  them.    Beneath  the 


328  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

veil  she  whispered :  "Come,  darling,  for  my  sake.  The 
longer  you  stay  here  now,  the  harder  it  will  be." 

He  threw  his  arms  round  her,  and  then  jumped  out  of  bed 
yawning. 

"That's  it,"  she  said.  "Now  go  and  shave  and  bath  while 
I  pack  lor  you.    Hurry  up ;  then  we'll  get  more  time. 

While  he  splashed  about  she  sought  for  his  things,  and 
packed  for  him  as  she  never  packed  for  herself.  As  she 
gathered  them  she  thought  of  the  night  before,  when,  over- 
whelmed in  a  tempest  of  love,  it  had  all  been  left  for  the 
morning.    She  filled  the  suit-case,  but  she  could  not  fasten  it. 

"Come  and  help,  Peter,"  she  called. 

He  came  out.  She  was  kneeling  on  it  m  her  loose  kimono, 
her  hair  all  about  her,  her  nightdress  open  at  the  throat.  He 
drank  her  beauty  in,  and  then  mastered  himself  for  a  minute 
and  shut  the  case.    "That  all  ?"  she  queried. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "You  get  back  into  bed,  my  darling,  or 
you'll  catch  cold.  PU  be  ready  in  a  second,  and  tlien  we 
can  have  a  few  minutes  together. 

At  the  glass  he  marshalled  his  arguments,  and  then  he  came 
over  to  her.  He  dropped  by  the  bedside  and  wound  his  arms 
about  her.  "Julie,"  he  whispered,  "my  darling,  say  you'll 
marry  me — please,  please!" 

She  made  no  reply.  He  kissed  her,  unresisting,  again  and 
again. 

"Julie,"  he  said,  "you  know  how  I  love  you.  You  do 
know  it.  Y'ou  know  Pm  not  begging  you  to  marry  me  be- 
cause Pve  got  something  out  of  you,  perhaps  when  you  were 
carried  away,  and  now  I  feel  I  must  make  reparation.  My 
darling,  it  isn't  that.  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  can't  live 
without  you.  Pll  give  up  everything  for  you.  I  want  to 
start  a  new  life  with  you.  I  can't  go  back  to  the  old,  anyhow ; 
I  don't  want  to :  it's  a  sham  to  me  now,  and  I  hate  shams — 
you  know  I  do.  But  you're  not  a  sham ;  our  love  isn't  a 
sham.  Pd  die  for  you,  Julie,  my  own  Julie ;  Pd  die  for  the 
least  little  bit  of  this  hair  of  yours,  I  think !  But  I  want  to 
live  for  you.    I  want  to  put  you  right  in  the  centre  of  every- 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  329 

tiling,  and  live  for  you,  Julie.  Say  'Yes,'  my  love,  my  own. 
You  must  say  'Yes.'    Why  don't  you,  Julie?" 

And  still  she  made  no  reply. 

A  kind  of  despair  seized  him.  "Oh,  Julie,"  he  cried, 
"what  can  I  say  or  what  can  I  00?  You're  cruel,  Julie; 
you're  killing  me!  You  must  say  'Yes'  before  I  go.  We'll 
meet  in  Havre,  I  know ;  but  that  will  be  so  different.  I  must 
have  my  answer  now.  Oh,  my  darling,  please,  please,  speak ! 
You  love  L.e,  Julie,  don't  you?" 

"Peter,"  said  Julie  slowly,  "I  love  you  so  much  that  I 
hardly  dare  speak,  lest  my  love  should  carry  me  away.  But 
listen,  my  dear,  listen.  Peter,  Pve  watched  you  these  days; 
I've  watched  you  in  France.  I've  watched  you  from  the 
moment  when  I  called  you  over  to  me  because  I  was  inter- 
ested and  felt  my  fate,  I  suppose.  I've  watched  you  strug- 
gling along,  Peter,  and  I  understand  why  you've  struggled. 
You're  built  for  great  things,  my  dear — how  great  I  can't  see 
and  I  can't  even  understand.  No,  Peter,  I  can't  even  under- 
stand— that's  part  of  the  tragedy  of  it.  Peter,  I  love  you  so 
that  my  love  for  you  is  my  centre,  it's  my  all  in  all,  it's  my 
hope  of  salvation,  Peter.  Do  you  hear,  my  darling? — my 
love,  it's  my  one  hope!  If  I  can't  keep  that  pure  and  clean, 
Peter,  I  ruin  both  of  us.  I  love  you  so,  Peter,  that  I  won't 
marry  you !" 

He  gave  a  little  cry,  but  swiftly  she  put  a  hand  over  his 
mouth.  She  smiled  at  him  as  she  did  so,  a  daring  little 
smile.  "Be  quiet,  you  Solomon,  you,"  she  said;  "I  haven't 
finished.  There !  Now  listen  again,  Peter :  you  can't  help 
it,  but  you  cap't  love  me  as  I  love  you.  I  see  it.  I — I  hate 
it,  I  think ;  but  I  know  it,  and  there's  an  end.  You,  my  dear, 
you  would  put  mc  in  the  centre,  but  you  can't.  I  can't  put 
you  out  of  my  centre,  Peter.  You  would  give  up  God  for 
me,  Peter,  but  you  can't,  or  if  you  did,  you'd  lose  us  both. 
But  I,  Peter — oh,  my  darling,  I  have  no  god  but  you.  And 
that's  why  I'll  worship  you,  Peter,  and  sacrifice  to  you, 
Peter,  sacrifice  to  your  only  ultimate  happiness,  Peter,  and 
sacrifice  my  all." 


330  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

He  tried  to  speak,  but  he  could  not.  The  past  days  ray 
before  him  in  a  clear  light  at  last.  Her  love  shone  on  them, 
and  shone  too  plainly  for  mistake.  He  tried  to  deny,  but 
he  couldn't ;  contradict,  but  his  heart  cried  the  truth,  and  his 
eyes  could  not  hide  it.  But  he  could  and  did  vent  his  passion. 
"Damn  God!  Curse  Him!"  he  cried.  "I  hate  Him!  Why 
should  He  master  me?  I  want  you,  Julie;  I  will  have  you; 
I  will  worship  you,  Julie!" 

She  let  him  speak,  and,  being  Julie,  his  words  only  brought 
a  more  tender  light  into  her  face.  "Peter,"  she  said,  "one 
minute.  Do  you  remember  where  you  first  kissed  me,  my 
darling? — the  first  real  kiss,  I  mean,"  and  her  eyes  sparkled 
with  fun  even  then.  "You  know — ah,  I  see  you  do!  You 
will  never  forget  that,  will  you?  Perhaps  you  thought  I 
didn't  notice,  but  I  did.  Neither  you  nor  I  chose  it ;  it  was 
Fate;  perhaps  it  was  your  God,  Peter.  But,  anyway,  look  at 
me  now  as  you  looked  then.    What  do  you  see?" 

He  stared  at  her,  and  he  saw — how  clearly  he  saw !  Her 
sweet  back-bent  head,  her  shining  eyes,  the  lamp-light  falling 
on  her  hair  out  of  the  night.  He  even  heard  the  sea  as  it 
beat  on  the  stones  of  the  (|uay — or  thought  he  did — and  felt 
the  whip  of  the  wind.  And  behind  her,  dominating,  arms 
outspread,  the  harbour  crucifix.  And  she  saw  that  he  saw, 
and  she  whispered:  "Do  you  hate  Him,  Peter?"  And  he 
sank  his  head  into  her  hands  and  sobbed  great  dry  sobs. 

"Ah,  don't,  don't,"  he  heard  her  say— "don't  Peter !  It's 
not  so  bad  as  that.  Your  life  is  going  to  be  full,  my  beloved, 
with  a  great  and  burning  love;  and  you  were  right  this  morn- 
ing, Peter,  more  right  than  you  knew.  When  that  is  there  you 
will  have  place  even  for  me — yes,  even  for  me,  the  love  of 
what  you  will  call  your  sin.  And  I,  my  dear,  dear  boy,  I  have 
something  even  now  which  no  devil,  Peter,  and  no  god  can 
take  away." 

He  looked  up.  "Then  there's  a  chance.  Julie.  You  won't 
say  'Yes,'  hut  don't  say  'No.'  Let  us  see.  I  shall  take  no 
vows,  Julie.  I  haven't  an  idea  what  I  shall  do,  and  maybe 
it  won't  be  quite  as  you  think,  and  there  will  be  a  little  room 


SIMON  CALLED  PETER  331 

for  you  one  day.  Oh,  say  you'll  wait  a  while,  Julie,  just  to 
see!" 

It  was  the  supreme  moment.  She  saw  no  crucifix  to 
sustain  her,  but  she  did  see  the  bastard  Spanish  dancing- 
girl.  And  she  did  not  hesitate.  "No,  Peter,"  she  said,  "I 
would  not  take  that,  and  you  never  could  give  it.  I  did  not 
mean  such  place  as  that.  It  never  can  be,  Peter ;  you  are  not 
made  for  me." 

And  thus  did  Julie,  who  knew  no  God,  but  Julie  of  the 
brave,  clean,  steadfast  heart,  give  Peter  to  Him. 

The  maid  came  in  answer  to  her  ring.  "Will  you  light  a 
fire,  please?"  said  Julie.  "I  suppose  Captain  Graham  has 
gone?" 

"Yes,  mam,  he's  gone,  and  he  felt  it  terrible,  I  could  see. 
But  don't  you  fear,  mam,  he'll  be  kept,  I  know  he  will. 
You're  that  good,  he'll  come  back  to  you,  never  fear.  But 
it's  'ard  on  those  they  leave,  ain't  it,  mam? — their  wives 
an'  all." 

"Yes,"  said  Julie,  and  she  never  spoke  more  bravely.  "But 
it's  got  to  be,  hasn't  it?  Would  you  pull  the  blind  up?  Ah, 
thanks;  why,  it's  sunny!  I'm  so  glad.  It  will  be  good  for 
the  crossing." 

"It  will  be  that,  'm.  We  gets  the  sun  first  up  here.  Shall 
I  bring  up  the  tea,  madame?" 

"I'll  ring,"  said  Julie,  "when  I  want  it.  It  won't  be  for 
a  few  minutes  yet." 

The  girl  went  out,  and  the  door  shut  behind  her.  Julie 
lay  on  still  for  a  little,  and  then  she  got  up.  She  walked  to 
the  window  and  looked  out,  and  she  threw  her  arms  wide 
with  a  gesture,  and  shut  her  eyes,  and  let  the  sun  fall  on  her. 
Then  she  walked  to  her  little  trunk,  and  rummaged  in  it. 
From  somewhere  far  down  she  drew  out  a  leather  case,  and 
with  it  in  her  hand  she  went  over  and  sat  by  the  fire.  She 
held  it  without  moving  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  slowly 
opened  it.  One  by  one  she  drew  out  a  few  worthless  things 
^-a  withered  bunch  of  primroses,  a  couple  of  little  scribbled 


332  SIMON  CALLED  PETER 

notes,  a  paper  cap  from  a  tracker,  a  menu  card,  a  handker- 
chief of  her  own  that  she  had  lent  to  him,  and  that  he  (just 
like  Peter)  had  given  back.  She  held  them  all  in  her  hand  a 
minute,  and  then  she  bent  lorward  and  dropped  them  in  the 
open  fire. 

And  the  sun  rose  a  littk  higher,  and  fell  on  the  tumbled 
brown  hair  tliat  Peter  had  kissed  and  tliat  now  hid  her  eyea. 


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